


Written in Stone

by Hlaalu



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Abstergo Industries, Alternate Universe - Slight Canon Divergence, DNA, Drunk Ezio Shenanigans, Eventual Smut, Finally some Leonardo and Ezio, Invention of the Animus, M/M, Pre-Canon, science talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hlaalu/pseuds/Hlaalu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being handcuffed and kidnapped by the most influential pharmaceutical company in the United States for a job interview and being told to build a machine to extract individual memories from DNA isn't what Elijah Griffiths expected from life, but it gets even worse. Then, Desmond happens.<br/>Fill for the Kink Meme prompt "What if Leonardo da Vinci's descendant is the one who designed and built the animus in the first place?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt over on the asscreedkinkmeme ("Leonardo's descendant"). The plot bunny that bit me probably had rabies.
> 
> Assassin's Creed belongs to You-be-soft (bad pun, I know).

Seven years, eight months, thirteen days and twelve minutes ago, he had been captured. Captured like a tiger cub on the loose with nice words and tender hands, only to be put in chains and locked away into a room so utterly without personality it made him forget his own name sometimes. The floor was sterile enough to lick your food off from, the light bright enough for you to want to rip your eyes out and just dim enough it didn’t hurt. He remembered their voices as clearly as though they were still ringing between the white walls... 

“I’d like to make you an offer, Mr. Griffiths.”

At first, he'd thought they were trying to sell him something, or maybe begging for money for illegal experiments in a very new, clever, creative way, but probably, he'd thought, they were Jehovah’s bloody Witnesses. The man in his door, the one with the beard that looked like it was made of wool and dragged through a pile of ashes, had smiled at him, but Eli didn’t like the smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t leave one single wrinkle; it was plastered onto his face as though someone had really failed at Photoshop.

Their nice words had soon turned a little less sweet and sunny, taking on a much harsher quality that didn’t really make him trust them more, much less when guards turned up at the bearded man’s side.

“ _Sir_ , you need to come with us.”  
“Calm down, _sir_ , you’re making this more complicated than it should be.”  
“Put this down, _sir_!” 

When the guard had smacked the paint brush he’d grabbed (as a makeshift weapon just in case he needed one) from his hand, he'd gone all the way from _suspicious-but-willing-to-talk_ to _you-can-shove-that-sir-up-your-ass-mister_ in one second. This of course hadn’t helped at all. But when the first one had patted his gun with his thumb, he'd surrendered without another word. He had not been ready to take violence.

Seven years, eight months, thirteen days and thirteen minutes. Yes, he was counting. Seven years, eight months, thirteen days and thirteen minutes of listening to that damn clock on his wall.

It was cruel of them to leave it there. They knew he couldn’t stop listening to it, even if he wanted to. His brain had to follow the _tic tac tic tac tic tac_ until his thoughts formed in the very same rhythm, until his pulse followed suit. Even now, seven years, eight months, thirteen days and thirteen minutes after he was captured, it still made him nervous, it was still using up part of his brain capacity, so that he could’t think, and that is just about the worst part of his captivity.

_Tic tac tic tac_.  
On and on and on, until his fingers drum the rhythm against his leg.  
 _Tic tac tic tac_.  
 _Tic tac tic_ idigi _tac_.  
 _Tic_ tigi _tac_ tag _tic_ idigi _tac_ …


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is written, Mr. Griffiths, and we are striving to read.”

Three hours he had spent in this room, hugging his knees and hoping they would realise that he neither had relatives to pay for him, nor could he himself pay any kind of ransom. He really didn’t want it to get ugly; self-defence was not exactly his greatest _asset_. All he’d ever done in his life was a little Yoga, but that didn’t count, did it. He was pretty certain they wouldn’t be impressed by a flawless sun salutation. He couldn’t even kill a spider, not even if it was bothering him... after he'd examined it from all angles, of course.

Three hours of listening to that damned clock had been enough for his lifetime, but it was the time they took to get him to calm down (or freak out further) before they would specify their “offer”. Until then he had thought them to be either mad or very intelligent bastards, but now he knew they were mad _and_ very intelligent bastards, namely one of the most influential pharmaceutical companies in the United States: Abstergo Industries. 

He was accompanied by two guards with batons and his hands tied behind his back through an endless maze of corridors, cross-shaped windows decorating galleries as high as cathedrals, metal floors and white walls reflecting the cold light and creating an all-encompassing, surreal atmosphere, until Eli was no longer entirely sure if he was still alive or if he’d died somewhere in his trance he'd slipped into during the ceaseless _tic tac _of the clock in his cell he liked to think of as his new archenemy. Not being able to move his hands, to touch and investigate had made him uncomfortable and nervous for a long time, so that the relief he felt when they took off his handcuffs was immeasurable.__

“Mr. Griffiths. I see you have taken a liking to our architecture.”

Eli was pushed into his seat, observing the man who stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, one thumb stroking over his palm in a constant movement. He felt terribly out of place in his shirt and jeans, both stained with paint – various shades of green and blue and spots of a gold tinted yellow he’d been working on for _hours_ – and dried plaster, while his chair, the desk, the floor and walls looked flawlessly sterile and annoyingly empty. The slightly chemical smell of conditioned air and the low humming of systems of cables and computers filled the room, and there was a rubber plant in the left corner next to the door, its fleshy leafs glooming in the cold light, and the guards stares from the sides of the door looked just as dead as everything else in the room. Eli didn’t say a word, and he knew they didn’t expect him to.

“Although I do support the richness and… _flavour_ of traditional art, I believe it keeps the mind pure to let it fill the walls by itself; it is a good training of the mind, don’t you think?”

He still hadn’t turned around fully, his face, sharp nose and his beard a dreamy outline against the bright light coming from the window. They hadn’t told him yet why they’d brought him here, or what a powerful company such as Abstergo Industries would want from him, a simple artist and inventor who could stare at a canvas for hours without one stroke of his brush, but couldn’t find the time or patience for a haircut. He wouldn’t talk as long as he didn’t know what they wanted from him; he couldn’t see a reason why he should try so desperately to get in trouble.

“You have quite a strong mind yourself if I’m not mistaken. Bringing pictures from imagination onto canvas, building worlds so complex other people find themselves sinking into them whenever they look at your work… It is a fascinating process in the brain: creation, inspiration, _imagination_. Did you know that imagination, to break it down to the essentials, is fed by both the Neocortex and the Thalamus, both of them strongly involved in the process of remembering and acting on instinct? One might say you are not inventing but simply listening to what your memory tells you to do.” Eli narrowed his eyes. Although he understood perfectly what the man was saying, he didn’t exactly feel reassured by it. The movement of the man’s hand came to an abrupt halt before he turned around to face him, the fake smile still painted onto his face. “You’re obviously not one of the talkative sorts. Let me introduce myself: my name is Warren Vidic; Dr. Vidic, to be exact.” “What did you take me here for, _Mr._ Vidic?”

“Oh, do not feel concerned, Mr. Griffiths. We want to offer you a job; a very special one at that.”

“This is not standard procedure for a job offering.”

The man ignored him and went over to his desk, randomly sorting through a pile of documents before folding his hands on the tabletop and staring at Eli evenly.

“Abstergo Industries is one of the leading companies in both investigation and stimulation of the brain; our findings are the basis for medication helping to create a better, easier lifestyle for hundreds of thousands of people in the United States alone. Every major discovery made in the last decades has been from members of Abstergo or their predecessors. In order to keep up to our standards, we have to be the future. And this is why you are here, Mr. Griffiths.”

He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and obviously waiting for some kind of reaction from him. But how would anyone react to this? “...Go on.”

“One of our key insights in the former century has been essential in the understanding of the body and mind. How do birds know how to fly? How do animals know which plants to eat? How do we know where to find shelter?” His smile actually looked honest there for a moment. He paused deliberately, his thumb once again stroking up and down his palm in a soothing motion. “I can tell you how, Mr. Griffiths. We know through the knowledge and experiences of our ancestors. Memory is connected vastly to the genome. In fact, it is even stored in the DNA, locked away for centuries, even _millennia_ to come; the truth unknown for generations engraved into stone, and all we need to do is to learn how to _read_ it.”

Vidic – obviously fond of big words and even bigger speeches – spread out his hands, as though he was presenting the truth to Eli on his arms, inviting him into an embrace meant to give epiphany. “Just imagine all the potential lost to years of doing the same mistakes all over again before we get to the point of actually creating and _living_ a better future. So many people dying because we are not fully in control of ourselves, because we do not know the DNA that’s in our body… It is written, Mr. Griffiths, and we are striving to read.”

Eli stared at him bewilderedly. Did that man even listen to himself? Memories stored in DNA? For centuries it had been known that memory was connected only to the brain and partly to the spinal column. It was a preposterous thing to-

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Griffiths.” Vidic shook his head in mock dismay. “Saying that the genes hold memories of dozens of ancestors seems just as far-fetched as claiming that the earth revolves around the sun. What a scandalous thing to say.”

The doctor paused for a moment, grinning, looking him over thoroughly. Eli was struck silent, staring at the man who looked a bit smug. He waited a good two minutes before reclining further into his seat and sighing. “How rude of me, you must be thirsty.” He made a quick gesture to one of the guards, who bowed his head in respect and left.

Eli tried to shake his head, although his mouth had gone dry. He hated to admit it, but the man was right. Centuries of research had been based on the belief that the earth was the centre of the universe, until a quick-witted, patient student from Poland had proved them all wrong, risking death by hanging in the name of God.

If thousands of scholars had been wrong – or too afraid to tell the truth – back then, it could have happened again.

But Eli still didn’t fit into the picture. If what the man had said was true, what did they need him for? And why had they deemed it necessary to drag him in here and lock him up instead of sending him an invitation to a job interview or just _calling_ like normal people would?

A glass of water was dangling before his eyes and he took it with a thoughtful nod of thanks, even though he hadn’t wanted it. Eyeing it carefully and glancing up to meet Dr. Vidic’s stare, he put the glass to his lips, wetting them and tasting the water cautiously. The doctor arched his eyebrows.

“If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t have brought you here. _Really_ , Mr. Griffiths…” He shook his head slowly as if scolding a child for its antics. Eli swallowed the water down, lowering his gaze to the floor and setting down his glass on the desk.

“You _are_ a pharmaceutical company after all, aren’t you.”

Dr. Vidic snorted. “That is quite true.”

“I’m still not completely sure how I can help with your plans. I’m only an artist.”

The man leaned onto his elbows, folding his hands like in prayer. His thumb took up the stroking motion again. “I’m disappointed, Mr. Griffiths, I would have expected more from you,” he said slowly, his eyes gleaming as though the conversation was going exactly the way he wanted it to. “You are an artist and inventor, and a rather genius one as well, I must say. If _you_ didn’t know how to project pictures from the mind, from what your genes are telling you to do through what we call inspiration, into reality, I wouldn’t know _who_ did.”

For a moment, Eli didn’t know what to say. So this _was_ a job interview of some kind? They wanted him to create something, to _remember_ -

He swallowed heavily when realisation hit him. “You… You want me to build something to read DNA with?”

Dr. Vidic smiled widely. “Oh, not only read DNA, but _live_ it. You are to create a machine to pull the mind of the subject into a world constructed by its own DNA to investigate its true potential and explore the vast genetic ancestral memory of the individual through the bodies of its ancestors.”

Eli was quite proud he didn’t pass out on the spot.

“You want me to do _what_?” He rubbed at his eyes, leaning forward in his chair. “Are you… are you serious?” Of course he wasn't... he _couldn't_ be...

Dr. Vidic chuckled light-heartedly. “Of course I am, Mr. Griffiths. Do you think we made all this effort just to joke around?”

Eli just shrugged. He actually _did_ know someone who liked to make really horrible and rather unfriendly jokes, but this would have been over-the-top even for his standards.

But this was Abstergo Industries, a company so advanced in research it was almost frightening. They were the co-founders of the Research Triangle Park in North Carolina, a fortress from the outside and a sanctuary for scientific knowledge from the inside. It was one of the most guarded facilities on the continent, many of its findings kept secret until its executive committee deemed the world ready for them. Eli didn’t doubt they were just as powerful as the government, and maybe what they were asking from him wasn’t even as crazy as it sounded. What made him nervous was the scale of it all: Eli had built machines before, had taken apart simple and complex computers and knew the inside of any device as well as the inside of his pockets. He knew it was possible for him to create stunning little robot toys that moved around various environments without hitting a wall or shutting down in protest; but the machine they wanted him to built would have to be connected to _people_ , it would do things, _scary_ things, to _people’s minds_.

Still… it wasn’t so different from wielding a paint brush as thin as an eyelash just to add the details to a single drop of water that got caught in white fabric. Eli knew how to build from imagination, how to let absolutely nothing pull his concentration from the object of interest until he knew everything about it, and he knew how to treat fragile organisms – both animate and inanimate – with utmost care.

“I… I will need to look through everything you can give me from the research,” he said, his voice hoarse and slightly shaky, brushing back the strands of hair that framed his face. Small creases lined his forehead in deep thought. He glanced up to meet the doctor’s stare and found him smiling at him in satisfaction, his thumb still working over the rough skin of his palm slowly.

“Of course, Mr. Griffiths. You will receive all you could possibly need.” He pulled out a single document and pushed it over towards Eli. Nothing but a short paragraph of text and small print lined the paper, down below the signatures of men he’d never heard the names of, but recognised the offices they held as highly influential. He swallowed again, and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his throat. The men that had signed this contract were pretty much the most important men in the country.

The doctor handed him a pen, its case shining in gold and emerald, and smiled once again. “The moment you sign this contract, you become a precious member of Abstergo Industries. This includes your personal office and your own quarters where you can move freely for the duration of the contract.”

“What about my commissions? I will need to-”

“That will not be necessary,” Vidic interrupted, his voice firm and sharp. “We need you to turn all your concentration onto this project. In return, you will be the inventor of the greatest innovation of the 21st century.”

The pen trembled in his paint-stained fingers. A few minutes passed before Mr. Vidic sighed disappointedly and reached for the document. “A _shame_ -”

“Wait.” His pen descended onto the paper, and he signed the contract with a firm hand, the long, fluid strokes of his signature in stark contrast to the neat font printed onto the contract.

He handed the doctor the document and pen and looked up, his stomach suddenly feeling heavy and worn out. Vidic smiled, small wrinkles lining the corners of his eye and disappearing into his beard.

“Welcome to Abstergo Industries, Mr. Griffiths.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hopes it was obvious that we jumped to the past after the Prologue...*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were they protecting him? Or his environment from his never-ending curiosity and quick wit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Science talk.  
>  ~~Also: beware abuse of italics.~~

Dr. Vidic hadn’t lied when he said he would become a precious member of Abstergo Industries. In fact, he seemed to be such a valued guest that whenever he walked between his new office and his new room (and nowhere else, mind you), he was accompanied by two guards in full gear, _so that he didn’t get lost_ , they'd said before never talking to him again. He’d overheard the name of one of them (he supposed it was the one with the clean shaved head, because it fit him better) when they had started arguing in front of his door, before someone with the authority of a king in his voice had ranted at them and they had resorted to whispering. Eli had pressed himself to the door, but the metal had been too thick. Jack and the other nameless guard were always there, even if he didn’t see them, and would take him to his office every morning and back every night. They would tuck him between their bodies, making it impossible to move left or right unless they pushed him that way, sometimes he even felt one gloved hand looming over his back in a silent warning not to leave his path… He wasn’t so sure what they were protecting though. Were they protecting him? Or his environment from his never-ending curiosity and quick wit?

Obviously, Dr. Vidic had a different understanding of “moving freely” than he had. He felt more like a prisoner than a guest. But he was quite talented in pushing the thought away until it was no more than the feeling of having been punched in the gut a few days ago. After all he was a master in the Arts of Procrastination.

He’d been brought to his new room the moment he had handed the doctor his pen. The little jumpy teenage self in his mind had made a happy dance of excitement at the thought of never hearing that damned clock again, of having his own walls where he could put his creativity to use like he’d done at home, of getting his hands on top-secret research. Every person meeting him in the corridors had smiled at him, tucking their notes to their bodies and welcoming him to Abstergo, but he also felt their glares on his back when he turned around to walk away. Eli supposed they were scientists… so they _had_ to be kind of strange, in some way, didn’t they? Maybe he had just torn them from their lines of thought, so he always excused himself when they looked up at him.

Halfway between the doctor’s office and where he supposed his new room was, a young woman had approached him, younger than him even, so she must have been a tender eighteen to nineteen years old. She had her blonde hair tucked up in a neat bun, a clipboard tucked to her side and an ID around her neck that identified her as one of the company’s interns. Her smile had been so honest and welcoming, her small fingers so warm when she shook his hand in greeting, he was immediately fond of her. She had that glimmer in her eyes that was so very difficult to capture on canvas… his fingers itched for his paint brush. He wanted to portray her. _Needed_ to. Now.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks rosy in both excitement and stress, she’d introduced herself as Lucy Stillman. “Welcome to Abstergo. I will take good care of you, Elijah,” she’d said with a small smile, and Eli had felt as much at home as he could in such a surreal environment as the Abstergo headquarters.

She’d taken him to his new quarters. The heavy metal door with a lit cross through the middle had opened up to a pretty empty, spacious bedroom, another door leading off to what he’d supposed was a bathroom. A bed with white sheets and grey covers lined the wall, a small desk adorning the side of the entrance; several folders, files and heavy heaps of documents piled on it. On a bedside table stood a lamp, a book with a broken spine at its side – he’d recognised it as one of his own. How had they-… His glance had wandered off to the dresser opposite the bed; a simple grey box made of cold metal, mimicking the colourless cement of the walls. Most probably he’d also find a few of his clothes in there. He hadn’t even wanted to think about how they’d brought his things in here without his consent.

_Well_ , he’d thought, _as soon as I get my hands onto my paints, this room will change drastically_. He couldn’t hide the smirk that had spread on his face at the thought.

Lucy had smiled at him, pulling her clipboard closer to herself like a shield. “It’s not much but I’m sure you’ll make a home of it. If you need anything else, please let me know.”

He hadn’t really had the tools to make a home of it. The book they had provided him with had been one he’d read twice already – Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, its cover worn and some pages stained with paint where inspiration had taken over during reading. Small stick persons, exaggerated faces and haphazard illustrations filled the empty spaces on the thin paper to the brim, his notes circling around the pictures in neat mirror writing. There was no canvas, no paintbrush, nothing but a single pen and a few empty pages of printer paper. The files and documents contained detailed descriptions of the results of Abstergo’s research on the matter of DNA and the memory stored within them, which was interesting and difficult lecture, but Elijah had gone through years and years of struggling to find proof for vague theories in a matter of days. They had indeed brought some of his clothes, those that weren’t stained with paint at least, which had been few. He didn’t usually find the time to wash his things, and if he did, he got distracted in the middle of it, sometimes trying to sketch the motion of the water inside the washer or imagining the mess of his clothes as a colour palette and drawing pictures in his head from those. His socks didn’t exist in pairs anymore, and most mornings he’d been with his head in the clouds anyway.

Still… he felt like the prisoner he had been before the signing of the contract. Abstergo seemed to be pretty fond of its clocks – there was one hanging over his dresser, opposite the bed where he spent most of his time. He would have asked them to take it away, put he wouldn’t give up the only thing that connected him to the outside world. Although its continuous _tic tac tic tac tic tac_ was just short of driving him insane, it gave him a sense of power having it there. His quarters were so silent, no sound from outside making it through the dense walls (except for the occasional words exchanged between Jack and the nameless guard); sometimes he even felt like the world had died around him, like his room was floating in nothing but empty space.

His daily routine was quite simple. He got up when he was told to, went to the bathroom to shave and shower, until Lucy came over with his breakfast. The blonde always looked to be in a hurry, so they rarely spoke, but she always spared a smile for him, even if he eyed the never changing meal without a word. He wasn’t used to regular meals, he usually ate when his growling stomach distracted him too much from his work, a few bites of practically anything before going back to work chewing on a spoonful. Jack and the other guard – one day he’d started calling them Jekyll and Hyde, just for identification purpose – would then take him to his office, which was quite nice. The desks were made of wood, several shelves lining the walls; it felt… better. More like home. And most of all: silent. He would have buried himself in his work just so he could stay there for days on end, but Jekyll and Hyde didn’t let it happen.

What he missed the most was… no, not his canvas and paintbrushes and notebooks, not his home and especially not his commissioners – it was sunlight. His quarters often felt like a bunker, his office had no windows either, and the never changing path Jekyll and Hyde took him had artificial light that never changed throughout the day. Sometimes he caught glimpses of daylight when they walked past a lab and someone had forgotten to close the blinds, but that was all. He’d never missed sunlight or fresh air as much when he’d been at home; he had been holed up in his workshop often enough, forgetting about everything else while investigating the movements of water under the influence of several air currents. It was different here though. His quarters, nothing like the wooden walls and earthy stone floor he was used to, felt like a cell.

But he trusted Lucy. And Lucy said it was all for his safety and making sure _everything went just fine_.

Though he was never entirely sure what she meant _exactly_.

A quiet sigh escaped him when he lifted his head from where he had been sitting over his breakfast. He felt worn out as though he had been running in a hamster wheel for the last weeks. He had worked through all the notes and conclusions in Abstergo’s research. It was flawless, he’d realised with not a small amount of admiration. The paragraphs were surprisingly clear, the proof for what Vidic had told him right there before his eyes, and he felt privileged to be one of the first to read those documents. Wrapping his head around unfamiliar words like _somatic memory_ , _epigenetic process_ , _genomic imprinting_ forming _epigenetic memory_ that was passed on to subsequent generations through _meiosis_. Of _racial memories_ that were posited memories, feelings and ideas inherited from our ancestors as part of a _collective unconscious_ , one of the darker, yet not fully investigated parts of the DNA concerning the human psyche, shaped and adapted by generations of organisms passing on characteristics and insights acquired during their lifetimes to their offspring. Memories engraved into DNA for the sake of _wholeness by integrating unconscious forces and motivations underlying human behaviour, supporting an inherent progressive tendency driving organisms continuously towards greater complexity, in parallel but separate lineages with no extinction_.

Understanding Abstergo’s findings, notes of people who had studied to become doctors, chemists and physicists for years and sometimes decades, had not been the most difficult part of his task, however. It was getting started.

How was he supposed to build something based on vague and complex research spread out on hundreds of pages? Finding the essence of it all so he could work from there certainly belonged to the _probably-impossible_ category that usually remained pretty empty for Eli. He didn’t normally think in absolutes.

But to be fair: being handcuffed and kidnapped by the most influential pharmaceutical company for a job interview and being told to build a machine to extract individual memories from DNA had seemed impossible before, and now he was striving to build _exactly that_.

Eli buried his hands in his hair, ignoring the blond strands that fell into his face like a curtain when he bowed his head. _Damn_ his curiosity and _damn_ his greed for knowledge, but _he was going to do this_. There was no way he could not.

When Jekyll and Hyde came in to take him to his office, he hugged his notes tightly and didn’t once avert his gaze from what lay ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed to crack open the shell to get to the good parts.

Inspiration though didn’t come easily. Weeks of reading and rereading and taking notes became months of scribbling around on his paper. Jekyll and Hyde didn’t become any friendlier; they weren’t mean either, just so professionally distant that it felt like a Berlin Wall made of ice was built between them. Lucy was a good-natured girl, undoubtedly, though always in a hurry, and when she came to see him, he tried his best not to close up, not to show his growing frustration.

Elijah had worked on difficult inventions before. He had acquired a good set of skills concerning machines of all sizes, had learnt which parts to treat with utmost care, which parts were the most vital and usually also the most fragile, and which parts he needed to keep clean while working on them – most of this he’d learnt the hard way by trial and failure and stubbornness. Machines were surprisingly similar to living organisms, their organs fragile like the wings of a bird, electricity shooting through them like fluttering heartbeats, while in a whole they were rather difficult to destroy.

Comparing machines to birds wasn’t so far-fetched at all. In fact, he was going to build something that could make people fly, though not in a literal sense.

Yes, Eli had worked on difficult inventions before, but nothing had ever been just as difficult as this one.

He had soon realised that creating a machine that could decode DNA wasn’t even that much of a problem. There had been studies of this before, and even though DNA was a rather fragile and important thing of the body, if treated with care it was surprisingly flexible. He knew normal DNA didn’t contain individual, ancestral memory, as it wasn’t vital for the body to survive and evolve, but there were several sequences in the human DNA that hadn’t been decoded yet; they were blank chapters in scientific research. It was as though this part of the genome didn’t _want_ to be investigated, as though it had something to hide, something _dangerous_. You needed to crack open the shell to get to the good parts. And it was like a siren’s call to Eli’s ears. Something was pulling him towards the secrets hidden in human cells, in _his own body_ , and he was burning to find it out and snoop around. Maybe one day… one day he would crack open one of his own ancestors’ memories… He shivered at the thought of all the secrets waiting to be unlocked.

At first, he had thought of using chemicals. Certain DNA sequences had to be activated that would usually sit unconcerned, _dormant_ almost. DNA was relatively fragile and easily destroyed – the process of splitting it up and decoding it must be done with caution, otherwise, the data could be lost and the body closing up, identifying the intruder as a threat and rejecting it from the body’s confines so that the subject would grow resistant to the influences of a particular drug. Chemicals would make the extraction of significant data rather risky. If they were contaminated with certain nucleases, its enzymes could chop up pretty much all of the organisms cellular data. Splitting up the strings of DNA permanently could, on a long-term basis, have similar effects like being exposed to radioactivity and Eli didn’t want to risk any permanent damage, especially since the machine would have to be connected to the subject’s brain in some form or another. 

He needed to find another way.

Like with every other stunning riddle that had dug itself into his brain, the solution came to him in his sleep.

Eli woke with a start, sitting up in his bed electrified, gasping for air as if he’d just breached water and came up to the startling light of sun, blinding him in its force but still binding him to its warmth. Eyes wide in the dimmed light his room had during night time that made the world look flat and shallow, he pushed away the blankets that held him back in the cocoon-like nest he’d built during a fitful sleep, and got up, not caring about his calf that was still wrapped in the covers, dragging them to the floor. His fingers were trembling when he made his way to the small desk, his shirt still ridden up on his chest from sleep, the hem caught under his arms. His hair was scruffy and kept getting into his eyes, and he shoved them back haphazardly, searching for his pen hectically, whimpering when he didn’t find it at first.

He probably looked like a madman, but he couldn’t care less.

Pushing away documents and folders that tumbled to the floor, mixing up papers he’d have to organise again later, his fingers finally closed around the pen, his mind and pulse racing miles ahead. Laughing quietly in triumph he set out for paper, limping while his calf dragged along the blankets, but he already felt inspiration slip away, he couldn’t afford losing it all again, and _damn Abstergo for its irrational lack of paper, but he needed_ -

Groaning in exasperation, Eli stumbled over to the empty cement wall above his bed, his pen raised like a weapon while his right hand started drumming a rhythm on his bare leg to the beating of the clock. He huffed in relief, his gaze fixating on his new-found “canvas” while his hand scribbled away line after line in slightly messy mirror writing onto the cement. Abstergo would probably not be happy about his creative _vandalism_ , but then again, it had all been Abstergo’s doing in bringing him here. They were the ones so eager to deal with his wayward mind.

All thoughts of Abstergo and a possibly pending punishment for his antics vanished when he grabbed inspiration by the hair, his hand acting on its own. Mumbling away silently, he moved across the plains of the wall, writing over the metal headboard of his bed when it got in the way. His pen screeched in the silence, the blankets shuffling behind him as his gaze narrowed in, eyes wide, the tip of his tongue dragging out over dry lips. Eli could almost feel the wheels in his brain, oiled and well-kept like a machine, turning, the words coming out through his hand before he formed them in his head, as the confines of his room fell away into a wide openness of empty space, where his eyes could see so much more.

When four hours later Lucy entered his room and snapped him from his thoughts with a startled gasp, hugging her notes close and just barely balancing the bowl in her hands, her eyes wide when she took a step back, Eli looked up from his notes with a surprised smile, his pen pushing against his lower lip in deep thought, his hands and cheeks, the wall above his bed, the headboard and the ceiling he’d reached by climbing onto his mattress covered in the dark blue ink of his pen. “Good morning, Lucy,” he said light-heartedly.

“I… guess…” 

She came in cautiously, still hiding partly behind her notes, her eyes taking in the mess he’d made. Setting down the bowl onto the desk, she tugged the blankets that were still wrapped around Eli’s calf from his leg. Eli smiled again and turned back to his notes, scratching his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Lucy fell silent for a minute and seemed to hesitate before she turned away, shaking her head and leaving him in peace.

When Jekyll and Hyde took him to his office, he happily muttered under his breath, smiling when Jekyll looked at him curiously from the corner of his eye before turning back to the cold façade the two of them wore around him. “Thanks, boys,” he said when they dropped him off at his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace will change after this one, I promise. ~~Let's hope it'll be for the better...~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what he had built anymore.

It had been years since that morning. His notes and doodles still clung to the walls, and every morning when he opened his eyes, they glared at him, the blue a stark contrast to the cement walls that were still as lifeless as they had been the first day.

“Mr. Griffiths. I have received word you have succeeded.”

Eli looked up from where he’d been staring into empty space, scratching at the hint of a beard caking his chin, and rubbed a pending headache from his temples. “Mr. Vidic,” he said, nodding in greeting.

The man stood on the threshold to his office, Jekyll and Hyde’s broad shoulders blocking the view into the corridor, where the lights were already dimmed for the night. He smiled. “I had a feeling it would be time soon. How long have you been working on it? Two years?”

Clearly he would know the answer, wouldn’t he? “Two years and six months, sir,” Eli corrected, not bothering with weeks, days, hours and minutes, because that would probably not be of interest (how could it not be? Could you ever be _too_ accurate? Probably you could. And if someone did, it would be him of course).

“So. You have built a machine that can decode DNA?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, staring at the bulky… _thing_ in the middle of the room. It looked like a huge table, or maybe a bed – or an altar, if you were to get fancy. Slightly curved steel, interrupted by blurry light making its way over it, glowing in the harsh lighting coming from the ceiling that didn’t reach the corners of the room delving into the shadows; underneath it all were hundreds of small lights imbedded in hard drives and measuring instruments, ones he imagined would blink and flicker as soon as the machine came to proper life, enveloped in the light fog coming from an improvised cooling system. Huge external hardware lined up in front of the office’s shelves. His eyes flashed when he imagined the device in the room they had reserved for it. It was perfect.

“No.” Vidic would have looked offended it not for the curiosity flashing across his face. Eli smiled apologetically. “The machine does not decode DNA. It would be far too risky to have outside forces messing with the genome and transferring the information back into the individual; the connection between the two vessels would be fragile and weak.” He paused, thinking, and continued. “It is very similar to transplanting organs: the more time and distance needed to be covered between the patient giving the organ and the one receiving it, the more can go wrong. It is a lot safer having all the work done in one place.”

Vidic observed him deep in thought, arms folded on his chest, one hand carding through the mess of his beard as though it would help him sort out his thoughts. Eli took his lack of reaction as an invitation to continue.

“The machine does not _decode_ DNA, but it’s a requirement for it to happen. The device and the human body need to operate in tandem, the former supplying it with the tools necessary and monitoring, the latter decoding its own DNA and sending impulses from and to the brain.”

“Explain yourself,” Vidic said coldly, but a small smile appeared on his face.

Eli’s hands danced as continued talking. “The genetic ancestral memories we’re looking for sit dormant in the strongest nucleotide pair of the DNA, which is hardest to dissociate without causing damage. The machine uses low-level magnetic fields,” his hands followed the glowing spine in the middle of the slightly curved metal plain, “to temporarily separate the DNA strings and make those parts pliable for the body that we need to focus on. Combined with the small electric shocks here and here,” he indicated the round knobs sitting in a straight line, starting from the head part, “directly into the base of the skull and the spine, the subject is pulled into a semi-conscious, dream-like state, not unlike a coma, while they also serve to monitor the individual’s heart rate, brain activity and the reflexes shooting through the nerves in his spine. The impulses sent from the brain in reaction to the images created are visualised on this screen.”

Vidic listened to his explanations of the machine’s doings, of the translation and visualisation programs he had implemented on it and of how the subject would need to be hooked up, in complete silence, not once pointing out flaws or asking the questions that were so obviously written across his face.

Eli took a step back when his monologue came to a close, suddenly feeling tired, his shoulders tense and aching, and scratched the nape of his neck, humbled when a hint of astonishment crossed the doctor’s features. “But to be honest, the most work is done by the subject itself. The device forces the mind to open up, to become more sensitive to impulses from within, while shielding it from outside influence, and creates a simulation based on the data it converts from the subject’s brain’s impulses. It simply places an avatar of the memories’ ancestor inside the simulation to give the body some sense of control.

“Problems could come up if the subject’s genetic ancestral memory is corrupted in some form or another; or if the individual strays too far from the original memory. The memories stored are probably not complete – none of us remember everything as clear as bright day. But I think the mind would detect harsh deviations from the originals… It… the subject would need to try and stay true to his ancestor’s actions,” he grinned, “to try and stay _synchronised_ with the ways of history.”

Vidic’s eyes flashed curiously. “Or else, what would happen?”

Eli shrugged his shoulders in thought. “I do not know if there might be long-term changes, but an immediate reaction could probably be compared to the body fighting a virus: identifying the intruder and rejecting it. I’d guess the brain would close up to the impulses reflected by the machine.”

“You’d be kicked out from your ancestor’s memories like a _disease_?”

He nodded. “As far as I can tell, yes, that’s how you could describe it.”

Vidic paused for a moment before quietly asking: “Is there a way to steer the memories?”

Eli blinked. Why would you want to do that? “I… I don’t think so. As the process of decoding is done by the body itself, I’d guess it is instinct choosing. Whatever memories the unconscious identifies as being important – which would probably be those equally important to the ancestor – would be the ones to come first. To make an example; if you had ancestral memory from both Napoleon Bonaparte and that of a beggar of the same time period, the key events in the life of Napoleon would be given priority… I think.”

“You need to change this. There must be a way to choose what memories to screen.”

“I… think it would be unwise to mess with the process.” He cringed at Vidic’s hard stare. “The human unconscious can be very powerful, and if it detects intervention, it might… _snap_.”

Vidic didn’t bat an eyelid at his assumptions and simply glared for a second before sighing and going back to that smile of his that always left Eli uncomfortable. “Then is there at least a way to speed up the whole process?”

Eli paused again, hesitating with his answer. It was curious how Vidic seemed to insist on something, his words masking other questions he did not dare ask. Why would anyone want to accelerate the procedure of looking at ancestral memory when you wanted to gain knowledge? Were they… _looking_ for something in particular? Certain events in history they wanted to check, certain… _books_ on _medicine_ long lost to wars and poverty and cold winters they wanted to view before they were destroyed? Eli suppressed a snort – that just didn’t sound right.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh… no… no, I don’t think so. You really _shouldn’t_ -”

“Maybe by putting the subject in a coma?”

“No,” Eli said decisively, slight anger, discomfort and wariness boiling in his gut and creeping up to lie heavy around his shoulders and pull at his hair. Vidic looked positively furious, so he lifted his hands in an attempt to make peace – just the way you would approach an angry bloodhound. “I mean, that would only slow the process down, as the mind would become uncooperative if pushed into a state of absolute unconsciousness.”

Elijah could see the vein pulsing in Vidic’s temple, barely holding back a violent flinch when the old man lifted his hands, but then the doctor sighed and proceeded to massage his palm with his thumb. Eli observed the stroking motion until Vidic addressed him again.

“When will it be available for use?”

Eli pushed a strand of sand-coloured hair behind his ear and leaned against his machine in an attempt to display casualness while a feeling of unease tugged at the nape of his neck.

“Well… in theory, it’s all ready to be hooked up.”

“ _In theory_?”

Elijah nodded shyly. “Yes, sir.” When Vidic narrowed his eyes, he hastily continued. “I am pretty certain it does work on every human individual whose genetic information hasn’t been damaged.”

“Well, you should make sure it turns into an _absolutely certain_ , then,” he snapped, before smiling. “This machine will be connected to humans. No one would want to be _responsible_ for any _damage_ done, Mr. Griffiths.”

Eli stared at Vidic, not liking the chill that went down his spine. “I understand.”

“I expected nothing less. Set to work as soon as possible,” Vidic said, turning to leave. The door hissed when the corridor behind swallowed him up in the dim night-time lighting, and slid shut, proudly presenting the lit cross through its middle. Eli’s shoulders slumped forward and he pinched the bridge of his nose, his thoughts racing. Why was Vidic so impatient? He had never received any kind of deadline, never in those two and a half years he’d been working on the machine. His invention wasn’t meant for medical reasons; it was simply a device for historical research… was it? Something not meant to save lives or cure diseases, merely for the sake of knowledge. Right? They had told him so often enough.

But what was the meaning behind those questions? And why did his stomach knot in anxiety when he looked at his device?

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what he had built anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~*would be very happy about a review or two - it helps me work on my writing so in the end makes it all the more enjoyable for you as well ;)*~~ What, you think that's me begging for a comment? Nah, of course not, whatever gave you that idea X'D...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments, they totally made my day, and sorry for the semi-hiatus, my laptop is apparently allergic to Greek internet -.-...

White fog exploded before his eyes when the pains and fears of thousands of men and women washed over him. Elijah barely even recognised them as separate feelings; it was a maelstrom of anger and anxiety, of hearts racing and voices screaming until it sounded like a single expression of horror, when eyes glared at him, of both the dead and the living, faces distorting into the masks and grimaces of the deceased; dozens of hands seemed to tear at him, to close around his throat, while at the same time he didn’t even seem to have a palpable form. What could only have been seconds felt like hours, and the scream from thousands of throats turned into his own. It was like his ancestors tried to hunt him down for breaking their silence, to lynch him and let him bleed for invading their minds and disturbing their peace. Their was no way for him to turn around, to leave and never come back to this horror that was his own DNA feasting on him in revenge for his curiosity, so he endured, until finally, the emotions turned from absolute and ruthless wrath to confusion. And then, the images changed.

A wall of pictures came down onto him.

Eli didn’t know where to look, images of landscapes and faces flashed before his eyes, too quickly for him to see, and the air was thick from voices, their talking in all kinds of languages, too loud for him to listen. He felt blades on his neck, wind in his hair and panic to the chest while warm hands kneaded his back, legs curled around his torso and throaty moans echoed around him, turning into shouts and whispers and sounds from war, cries of fear and battle and litanies praying to all kinds of gods for forgiveness mixing with laughs and the sounds of lovemaking to a morbid mess of the noise that was life; a deafening gunshot directly to his left, and the rasping breaths and whimpers of a dying man to his right, while knives slid his flesh and his own hands pushed struggling bodies underwater.

And Eli just wanted to die.

Microseconds later, he gasped for air when the machine’s hold on his body relaxed and he fought his way back to consciousness, the air in his office stale from the stench of burnt rubber and sweat. The faint warning beeping and the glaring red light coming from the machine’s cooling system didn’t get to him at first, and he focused his gaze onto his bent knees while he willed his world to stop belly dancing around him. He tried to push away the feeling of hanging on a thread from the top of the Burj Khalifa, but it was too much anyway; his eyes widened when he felt like he was dying, and he rolled to the side and emptied his stomach onto the floor.

His hands trembled as they clasped to the edge of the cold steel. He tried to breathe, but invisible fingers still clung to his throat, whispering threats into his ear, and when he sobbed silently, teeth clenched, they finally let go of him, leaving him hanging on the hard surface like a dead man.

Later, his limbs still trembling, his muscles heavy and his heart fluttering like a frightened bird’s wings, he got clumsily onto his feet, and instead of pushing a few buttons to shut down his device and make sure it would not implode in the middle of the night, he shuffled over to the wall and pulled the plug. The machine huffed and rattled, but finally grew silent, falling dormant; Eli still glared at it in fear and absolute horror about his own creation, as though it could jump at him and grab him by the neck as soon as he turned his back. His door opened quietly, Jekyll and Hyde sticking in their heads in their usual cool demeanour, probably alarmed by the unbearable stench coming from his office, and when they found Eli leaning against the wall, eyes wild with terror, they each grabbed him by an arm and took him from his office.

He felt broken and shattered, and he never wanted to return to the dangerous beast he’d given birth to.

Two days later, he still felt miserable, and on top of the weakness in his limbs and the constant trembling of his sweaty hands, he felt fear for what he might have done. He couldn’t sleep, and when he did, it was fitful, the horrors of what he’d seen and felt slipping into his dreams, ugly faces following him and sneering at him behind closed eyes. He could’ve damaged himself permanently, and maybe he was slowly falling apart? Eli shivered at the thought of having driven himself insane for the sake of scientific knowledge. He didn’t want to become just another ironic example in history of inventors and scientists who had been destroyed by what they had created. And sure enough he didn’t want to lose his mind.

But it certainly felt like it.

Elijah had not yet had the courage to go back to his machine, and fortunately, until now, they hadn’t dragged him back over to his office. Abstergo left him to himself and the thoughts turning over and over in his head.

He wasn’t sure if he had failed or succeeded. What he had seen, heard, felt… he knew they had been his ancestors. He had dived into the past during those disastrous minutes that had felt like days, he had seen the lives of his ancestors, or at least what they had thrown at him. But it had been too much. Eli was fairly certain that he might not have survived this little adventure if the machine hadn’t overheated, so that he could desynchronise from the memories in his DNA. Otherwise, his ancestors would have taken him and ridden him into madness.

After giving it some thought, Eli came to the conclusion that the machine’s calibration was poor. Instead of feeding him a constant, filtered stream of consciousness, of memory, the machine had been so overwhelmed by the diversity and sheer mass of memories in his DNA that it had not been able to interrupt the wave of emotions. If he managed to tune it down, to give the machine more control… maybe it could take the heat and give the flow of memories a structure to cling to.

Eli wasn’t sure he ever wanted to return to it, though. If he ever stepped into that office again and hooked himself into that machine, he would once again risk his mental health, and he wasn’t ready to do that. Abstergo would have to do the rest themselves.

They didn’t give him any choice.

Several days later, he was working on it again, under steady observation of another guard without name. He had heard someone bark at him down the hallway – what was it with guards being shouted at – and his response had been silent, but the French accent in his voice had been thick and creamy, so he started calling him Frances. The man didn’t seem to mind that Eli talked to him during work, telling him about his doings, even if he didn’t want to know (or maybe didn’t even understand), and there had been no change in the even stare he fixated on Eli when he called him by his new nickname.

Eli didn’t know why they had given him another guard, Frances, to watch over him along with Jekyll and Hyde, but he didn’t particularly mind them as well. His machine took up all his time, thought and effort, so that he sometimes forgot Frances’ presence altogether. He wasn’t sure if they were trying to prevent him from getting insane or trying to prevent him from hurting himself and his environment in case he _got_ insane, but he couldn’t do anything about it anyway, and he doubted Frances would pull him out of the device in case something went wrong. But for some reason he felt reassured by the silently looming presence of that bulky man.

Barely two weeks after the first incident with the machine, he got ready for another dive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~  
> _Is it just me or did it just get a little bit dark in this supposedly not-dark story?? -.-_   
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning: mentions of rape** but not enough for a major warning, I hope, (and not too thoroughly researched history D:)

The first thing he knew when he opened his eyes, was panic.

It was frighteningly similar to his last time in the machine, white fog, distorted faces and loud voices echoing through his consciousness, but this time, he had a _body_ , an awareness of his self. And this time he knew that they wouldn’t kill him, no matter how much he felt torn and shattered.

And they knew too. For a while, there was chaos, like stormy winds disturbing the surface of a deep body of water, but Eli noticed the change before it happened. It came to a rest and suddenly, silence exploded in his ears. Not sure what to do but helplessly overwhelmed by the calm and quiet and the almost distanced feeling compared to the waves of brutal emotion that had shook him the last time, he stared into nothing, waiting, the white fog enveloping him from all sides.

And then, there were sounds. Distant, as though someone was coming for him to take the lead, the quick tapping of light feet on cobblestone, and his feet started to move, before they took a sudden corner and-

A dead end appeared before him out of nowhere, the thick fog that drowned out noises surrounding him, and his breath echoed loudly in his ears like there was a hound breathing down his neck, just waiting for the right moment to open up wide and crunch his bones between tight jaws. His feet couldn’t walk as fast as he wanted them to, his cheek burned where he’d scratched it open in his haste, stumbling against the walls when he’d lost his calm.

He clung to the basket that seemed to appear in his hands out of thin air, heavy with potatoes and vegetables from the market. He saw spindly thin fingers with long, dirty nails, and when a breeze tugged at his bonnet, he realised he was a-

_She should have known it would be dangerous to walk the streets of Dublin today._

_They had warned her not to leave the house until it was over, but Mother had gotten ill and she’d had to look after her, and their supplies diminished quickly when eight children called for food. She pictured them craning their necks like little baby birds and finally calmed down a bit. She was, after all, the eldest daughter, and she did not want to fail her family like Kylian had. Her brother had been a fool to leave them alone and join this_ perfectly hopeless little rebellion _they liked to call ‘Revolution’ these days. They would set the city on fire and die, she_ knew _they would, and the British soldiers would come to their houses and steal their wives and daughters, like they had done two years ago, and she would have to look after her siblings on her own, because there was no way Mother would survive the next winter, not with soldiers living from their mouths-_

_Staring at her feet in anger, she almost walked into a solid wall of a man appearing out of nothing, it seemed, stumbling back a few steps and grating out an “Excuse me, Mister”, but two hands – big, scary hands, but clean fingernails, so they were the hands of a good man – came up to her shoulders to hold her back. “Easy there,” he said, and she looked up to meet his gaze._

_A good man indeed. A pleasant face he wore, his appearance well-groomed and sophisticated, his sideburns kept carefully and chin cleanly shaven, the wrinkles of a man who liked a good laugh or two from time to time adorning the corners of his eyes, the soft grey shades in his hair indicating he carried a little more than forty years on his shoulders. Relief flooded her, because he didn’t look like those desperate sons of dogs who supported the ‘Revolution’ that would drive them all into ruins._

_“I am sorry, Sir, I didn’t see you, it is the weather, you see-”_

_He smiled at her and put a finger to his lips to quieten her. “It is alright. What is your name?” His voice sounded so loud in the complete silence before the storm, even though he’d spoken hushed._

_“Deirdre, Mister.”_

_He nodded contently. “Ah, a good Irish name you have there. Will serve well to drive away those British bastards from our land.”_

_She blinked. She wasn’t sure she’d understood what he meant, but she did no longer feel comfortable. She needed to get home anyway, Mother could be dying right now, and-_

_Her gaze dropped to his torso and she paused when she saw dark, brownish red sprout from underneath his jacket. Not so much time ago, his clothes must have belonged to another good man, who was now bleeding out naked somewhere on the pavement in the name of the ‘Revolution’. Hot and cold shivers ran down her neck, and she took a step back. She should have known the disguise when she saw one. “I-I need to go, Sir. Mother-”_

_“Can wait a little longer, sweet child.”_

_He stepped closer, crowding her against the sidewall of the ally. Deirdre prayed to God for voices of approaching men to save her, or maybe even a gunshot somewhere nearby, so that he would leave her in peace, but apparently God didn’t listen to the bastard child of a weaver and the daughter of a drunkard, because nothing happened. The uncomfortable warmth of his body and the waft of ale that came from his mouth made her feel her heart in her throat. “Please, Sir, I want-”_

_“Hush, child. I know exactly what you want.” His gloved hand came up to cup her cheek, and she acted on instinct, when she pulled up her arms against his chest and tried to push him away, but he was huge and had broad shoulders, and he was well-fed for one of the dogs of the ‘Revolution’. And suddenly, white hot pain flashed across her face, her left ear popped and fell numb, and before she realised he had slapped her with the back of his hand, his knuckles leaving a white slash over her cheekbone that would quickly turn a bright red, she heard the shuffle of cloth being pushed out of the way when his right hand got busy between his legs, his left hand holding her to the wall with a painful grip around her bony shoulder._

_And she knew with cold realisation that she would be just one more victim to that foolish ‘Revolution’._

_She couldn’t even pray when he pushed inside her, his hand closing around her neck and cutting away air when she tried to squirm or scream, or when he grunted like a wild animal when he emptied his dirty juices into her, or when he left her shaking and confused and bleeding in the roadside ditch, or when she found out she couldn’t cry._

_Only when, months later, she felt the wind gripping her hair and the ship take off from the harbour, and the life growing within her pushed against her round form, she let her hand rest on her belly and her gaze wander off to the horizon, where she believed the New World of America lied, and prayed to God to be there for her child when he had not been there for her, and to not let her bastard child be consumed by the sins of its father. Her cheeks were wet with what she wanted to believe was seawater._

__And when Eli surfaced to the unerring stare of Frances and the low purr of the cooling system and gasped for air like a drowning man, his throat was tight with all the screams Deirdre had wanted to utter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wants to know, Deirdre's part's setting is the Irish Rebellion of 1798, an uprising against British rule in Ireland.
> 
> Edit: On a side note, and yes, I know this does not belong here, but I'm desperate - does anyone know what happened to Mureh's tumblr, the "Secluded Stronghold" one? Has it been deleted or moved or anything? I can't seem to access her blog anymore (with all the awesome art)... :(


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans were given a common sense for a reason, and it was not ignoring it at the first opportunity.

Elijah sat up slowly, rubbing his hands over his face and balancing his elbows on his knees, trying to come to terms with what he had just experienced. He felt pain in parts of the body he didn’t even have, expected the curves of his female torso to sway in his step, but he knew they wouldn’t, because he was a _man_. And right now he couldn’t have been more ashamed to be one.

This was not what he’d expected in the last two and a half years of building this machine, this _monster_. He’d thought of kings and shahs, of scholars and artists, of adventurers and travellers, of seeing the world through their eyes, of getting his hands on scripts and writings lost decades, _millennia_ ago, of looking into conspiracies and the dark corners of historic research, of History coming to life. And the first memory his ancestors had thrown at him, as though they had been looking for revenge, was one of a girl forced to bear the child of her rapist, leaving her family and home country for America in search of a future without shame. It felt like a spiteful slap to his face. And even worse was the knowledge that he damn well deserved it.

Expertly ignoring Frances’ unwavering gaze, he quietly muttered to himself that he never wanted to do this again, shakily got to his feet and punched in the commands for the machine to hibernate. Only when he walked towards the door did Frances take a step towards him in warning, blocking his way. 

“Where you going?”

Eli froze in his step and looked up to meet the bulky man’s stare. He wasn’t sure if Frances had actually talked or if he had just dreamt it all and would wake up any moment finding himself caught in Deirdre’s conscious for the rest of her life. He blinked at him blankly.

“Not leaving,” Frances said, French accent pouring from his mouth like heavy wine, and the man arched his eyebrows when Eli stared at him. “You’re not leaving,” he repeated, and what could have been a question sounded like a command.

Eli was ashamed when his voice broke during one single word. “What?”

Frances shook his head in dismay. “I am not allowed to let you leave yet.” His hands balled to fists and Eli took a step back, pulling up his shoulders in a sudden fear of the man’s muscles. Where before his bulky presence had given Eli a sense of safety, his posture now made it clear that he could’ve broken Eli’s skull between the buds of his fingers had he been told to.

“O-okay.” He wasn’t ready to take any risks for a beating… again. As a child he had had the painful habit of asking questions and questioning answers, and being the most awkward kid at school couldn’t possibly make him any more popular. When he was younger he’d had several occasions of obviously opening his mouth too wide, of saying the right things to the wrong people, of making the wrong people too uncomfortable, and he’d paid the prize for his quick wit too often, to the point where three of his toes stood out permanently at odd angles, he’d had his right shoulder dislocated twice (which is why he preferred his left hand, despite being ambidextrous by nature) and been in hospital for a concussion more often than he remembered – which was probably another side effect of said concussions. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand besides being torn from his work when he was immersed so deeply he showed no reaction to the outside world, it was violence, and for good reason; beating each others’ brains out and devastating bones to the point of making them completely useless appendages didn’t make mankind any less a waste of time and natural resources. Humans were given a common sense for a reason, and it was _not_ ignoring it at the first opportunity.

Eli swallowed heavily, uncertainty rooting him to the spot. “So what will you have me do, then?”

Frances locked eyes with him for a moment, and Eli felt a shudder roll over him when he recognised a huge pending _nothing_ in his eyes, before nodding his chin towards the machine, not saying a word. _Please not again_ , Eli thought, close to begging to just let him go, _please_ , but he paused when he saw something flashing over the man’s face for not even a second, some sort of satisfaction at the pain in Eli’s expression, something that screamed hello to his anxiety in a most sadistic and blood-freezing manner, something that made his hair stand on end, and _they know_ , he thought, _they know exactly the horrifying things I saw_ , and he willed his expression to go blank. He wanted to wince at the way his smile felt false and dishonest, but he was not willing to let them have their ways with him – he might have been an artist who let his commissions and customers take over control over his life completely, but that didn’t mean he was a lab rat and let them push him around as much as they liked.

His smile grew into a grin that felt like acid on his face. “Of course. Your wish is my command.”

And while his fingers worked silently, the machine rumbling to life before falling into a reassuring silence, pulled up the necessary programs to tug at his DNA and feed him a steady stream of ancestral memory, and taking up his spot on the morbidly cold steel, all he could think was _Not again, please not again_ , until he felt his eyes roll back in their sockets when he lost consciousness and the fluffy white of the machine’s default desktop surface enveloped him in an embrace so close to death it made his neck tingle.

That was until he realised there was actually something else that made his neck tingle.

_“Leonardo.”_

_Although he immediately recognised the voice, he hadn’t exactly expected anyone to be here. With a startled yelp he let go of his paintbrush, the sound of it clattering on the floor echoed in his ears that pounded with rushing blood, and immediately felt his heart racing against his ribcage like a scared bird’s wings before he turned around towards the intruder. “Ezio! I didn’t-”_

_The warm honey of laughter curled from Ezio’s lips when he stepped out of the shadows the afternoon sun painted into his bottega. “Mi dispiace, my friend, I did not mean to upset you.” His face was cloaked in dark lines of shadow, but his firm smile and a set jaw were clearly visible. Leonardo chuckled._

_“Ah, you did not upset me. I merely did not expect any visitors.” He put his hand on Ezio’s shoulder, the thick leather smooth under his calloused fingertips. “It is good to see you unharmed, Ezio.”_

_The man returned the gesture cordially and grinned. “Unharmed for a change, indeed.”_

_Leonardo moved to pick up his brush, holding it against the bright light coming from the window far above to inspect it for any permanent damage with one eye closed against the sun. Satisfied he put it down carefully, moving his easel out of the way so the paint could dry. He turned around just in time to see Ezio bend curiously over his notes that were spread all over one of his many desks to the point where the tabletop wasn’t visible at any given time. “What are these?”_

_“O-oh, it is nothing,” he replied, hastily moving over to Ezio’s side to collect his papers, “just some scribbles I made when I was bored, it- Ezio!” The man had already grabbed a handful of pages, cradling them gently in his palms and holding them over his head when Leonardo tried to get them back. He glared at the man who seemed to thoroughly amuse himself. “_ Ezio _. Do not make me lunge for them.”_

_Against popular belief, Leonardo didn’t take it lightly if people toyed around with his belongings. Much less assassins with possibly bloodied gloves, who were likely to smear body fluids all over his notes._

_But instead of handing back the papers, said assassin darted away to take refuge behind an armchair with high backrest, eagerly staring down at the page – probably confused at Leonardo’s supposedly indecipherable handwriting that was in fact just mirrored Italian, he did that from time to time to entertain himself – before tilting his head sideways. “What is this?”_

_Leonardo followed him around the armchair, sighing in defeat, to glance at the page, scratching his neck sheepishly. “Well… it- it is meant to be a… a cart moving on its own.”_

_Ezio’s brow creased and he looked deep in thought. “What do you mean, on its own? Like, no horses?”_

_Leonardo nodded enthusiastically. He would not have thought for Ezio to grasp the idea so quickly. He knew the man wasn’t dumb, but Ezio’s mind was like a little butterfly, easily distracted when it came to complex ideas; he did not usually dwell on things for too long, preferred the straight forward Auditore way of barging in with his head through the wall, not thinking about the consequences and subtleties until afterwards, and Leonardo almost felt proud that he’d managed to awaken Ezio’s inner scientist-_

_The man burst out with roaring laughter and almost let go of the papers. Leonardo’s eyebrows dropped into a small pout and he snatched his notes to cram them into a box or another. Ezio flopped down onto the armchair, finally coming back from his bout of laughter and folded his hands on his stomach contentedly. “That is,“ he snorted, “You are funny,” he practically giggled out. Leonardo glanced up and tried not to look too offended._

_”It is good to know you are so amused by this,” he said flatly._

_Ezio looked confused there for a moment. “Oh.” He grimaced apologetically. “I did not mean to be rude, Leo.”_

_Leonardo’s in disapproval crossed arms dropped helplessly to his sides at the pet name – he probably didn’t even know what that did to him – and he shook his head lightly. “It is alright, Ezio.”_

_“Are you sure? I am really sorry-”_

_“No, no, amico mio, do not worry.”_

_Ezio still didn’t look exactly pleased, and only now that he let his cowl pool in his neck to air out his wild mop of hair did Leonardo see the lines and edges the weight of fatigue, worry and slowly progressing age had carved into the man’s appearance. He shook himself from the increasingly unpleasant thoughts and started moving around looking for something to distract himself – which wasn’t that hard, usually._

_“Oh, you must be thirsty. Please, make yourself at home. I have received a good bottle of wine from one of my commissioners.” He paused, irritated. “Apparently he thought it would make me finish the portrait of his moustached mistress faster. Anyway, I did not have the chance to try it yet. I am sure it must be somewhere around here…” He trailed off, his mind already set to his new task of hurriedly looking over his possessions, pushing through discarded paintings, boxes full of handmade masks from carnevale, scattered pages of notes and something that looked conspicuously like one of his braies that he now felt distinctly self-conscious about… however that embarrassing piece of cloth had moved from his bedroom to his bottega._

_“Leonardo, that is not necessary-”_

_“Oh, but I insist.”_

_Finally his hand closed around the slim neck of a dark green bottle, the heavy liquor looked like ink as it sloshed against the thick distorted glass. Luckily he found a pair of simple goblets with it and he pulled out both in triumph from having defeated the four-headed beast the mess in his workshop became when it got out of hand… which was one more constant in his life he relied on when it came to delaying his commissions. How was it his fault when his things had a habit of developing legs and moving themselves all over the place when he wasn’t looking?_

_From that moment on, the speed of the sun moving towards the horizon seemed to increase tenfold. After trying to give the man a grasp of the concept he’d thought up for the apparatus moving in its own effort he repeatedly called “automobile” while Ezio refused to call it anything else then “stupid scientific babbling – is that Greek or something?” and failing marvellously to a miserable and frustrated looking Ezio, they resorted to trading stories about their respective commissioners, court, and the Medici. Apparently, Ezio found it hilarious that Leonardo had lost his calm once and stabbed a messenger, who had repeatedly asked about his master’s wife’s friend’s portrait, in the nose with his paintbrush, completely disregarding the fact that the paint on it had been water-resistant tempera, meaning an almost permanent adornment to the unlucky messenger’s face. At some point they’d gotten dinner and even more wine, and somewhere along the line, Leonardo had gotten unusually comfortable in his intoxication and Ezio in discarding most of his weapons and all of his armour, so that he now took residence in Leonardo’s armchair like a pirate king in his white shirt and tight trousers that left Leonardo slightly flustered and glad to be given the opportunity to pin it on the wine._

_And then the conversation didn’t take long to drop into fields Leonardo had carefully avoided until now and that made him completely sober in the span of one second._

_“Teodora said something funny lately,” Ezio started and stopped to catch a drop of wine from the edge of his goblet… with his tongue, distracting Leonardo from the ominous path they were treading, so that Ezio chuckled and pushed at Leonardo’s leg with his boot. “Are you listening at all?”_

_That pulled him from his stupor. “Oh, sì, of course I am, go on,” he said, leaning back into his chair, a vague feeling of wariness pooling in his gut._

_“Bene, so like I said, I was having a bit of wine with her the other night, and she told me about something.” He eyed Leonardo over his goblet. “You never told me about your conflict with court the year my father… the year we met.”_

_Leonardo’s eyes grew wide the same moment his hands became sweaty and his feet cold, shame and painful fear crawling up and down his spine and tinting his ears bright red. “Ezio, I-I… I can explain-”_

_Ezio leaned towards him and his expression changed into something Leonardo could only describe as… pity? “There is nothing to explain, my friend, I know how hard it must have been to be in love with someone society frowns upon, and I am sorry to hear about your loss. If you…” – he became increasingly awkward at that point – “… if you ever feel the need to talk-”_

_“Does it… does it not upset you at all?” Leonardo asked anxiously. He knew that the Assassins’ ideology differed from the one most even open-minded individuals lived in his time; he’d read a lot about it in the codices Ezio had brought him, and he knew that many rules that made up society didn’t exist in the Assassins’ creed, its maxim – nulla è reale, tutto è lecito – providing the best example, but he wouldn’t have thought their acceptance to span so wide it would even tolerate… sexual… relationships… between men. That was a rather Greek, and so considered a pretty barbaric habit in his time and place. Especially with Ezio being a complete ladies’ man, always up and about looking for a new conquest… he would have guessed it would bother him, but he seemed to take it rather lightly._

_“No, not at all, what is there to be upset about, except those stronzi at court?” He paused, frowning and taking another gulp of wine while Leonardo chose not to answer, still helpless about the fact that Ezio seemed to have no problem at all with his history of sodomy and of almost hanging in the name of some God who apparently did not take a liking to whom he happened to love. Ezio set down his goblet and smirked lopsidedly. “I just hope she was pretty enough to be worth all the fuss.”_

_Leonardo stared at him flatly, the wheels in his head locking up for a moment. “_ She _?”_

_Ezio chuckled again. “Yes, the harlot you wanted to marry but could not because of court.”_

_“I… wanted to-” And finally he understood. A very, very bitter taste spread across his tongue, and he felt his stomach sink. “Oh. Yes. Yes, she was pretty.” Lying felt so easy he wanted to be sick from it._

_Ezio hummed in delight and said: “Oh, I should take you to Teodora’s sometime, I know some very tender girls you would like for sure.” He grinned widely and tried to get to his feet, swaying heavily in doing so. “I would take you right now, but I’m entirely too drunk to even think about it properly at the moment…” He laughed and scowled at his crotch for a second. Leonardo buried his face in his hands at Ezio’s deliberate choice of words._

_Ezio was also entirely too drunk to go anywhere at this kind of hour, and he let Leonardo push him into the armchair and prop his feet up with a few cushions after he’d hugged its backrest so tightly that Leonardo physically couldn’t make him take his bed for the night. When he finally closed the door to his private chambers behind him and leaned against it, he sighed out both relief and a very acidic kind of disappointment about this night’s revelations that had been entirely too close for comfort._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_
> 
>  
> 
> mi dispiace – I am sorry  
> amico mio – my friend  
> carnevale – carnival  
> braies – a type of undergarment worn by men in the Renaissance  
> bottega – workshop  
> (egg) tempera – a kind of paint and the primary panel painting medium for artists before the 1500s; although Leonardo often used oils, egg tempera was vastly used and preferred due to being fast-drying and pretty resistant to outside influence  
> bene – okay, good, well  
> stronzi – assholes
> 
>  
> 
> And thus this chapter shall be dubbed: “Drunk Ezio Shenanigans”.  
> Some Leonardo and some Ezio, but I’m entirely convinced I failed in presenting their characters *whines*. At least I finally have something to pull up (justify) my 900 pages of Leonardo da Vinci biography for (with).  
> Also, let’s just completely disregard the fact that Leonardo lived in Milano at that time ~~because that’s exactly what Ubisoft did as well~~.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brain just wasn't built to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly go away, stupid writers' block. Also, let's file this under "I tried"~

_The next morning found Leonardo up and about like a hummingbird. Only minutes after Ezio’s rather awkward and all the more grumpy departure – besides all the bad the wine had done, it had at least given him a headache bad enough so that he could not remember anything from the night before – he left his bottega heading to the market. His legs had other plans, though. Soon enough he realised the familiar sights and scents, the colours and charms of the beautiful whore that was Venezia, didn’t tug on him like they usually did. He didn’t forget where he was going, nor did he get distracted from his path. Normally he would get caught up in some detail that fascinated him. An old man sitting on a bench, staring into nothing, the weight of the years on his shoulders visible to the naked eye. A girl, loose curls framing her chubby face, holding her sleeping child in her arms, completely oblivious to the world. A cat darting off into an alleyway. The shadow of a large bird looming over them that would, randomly it seemed, turn out as the fluttering cape of a man that would disappear too quickly for Leonardo to look up in time._

_Not today, even though Venezia tried her best to bewitch him. Teodora was very surprised when he turned up at_ La Rosa Della Virtù _, her girls enchanted to see him, but, as usual, he wasn’t interested in what they had to offer. Teodora smiled at him, but he could clearly see the worry lines on her forehead when she welcomed him – or maybe the woman was simply getting older._

_“Leonardo! Did you switch sides? Maybe Ezio’s company did rub off on you.”_

_Leonardo chose to ignore the statement. Worry was eating away at him; Teodora’s game was a dangerous one to play, and he was in no position to take it lightly._

_“I’m afraid not.”_

_Her eyebrows twitched and he could see her eyes narrowing a fraction at his unusual behaviour. “You seem troubled, friend.” She looked him up and down, waving off the girls that were still trying to get Leonardo’s attention; it was of no use anyway. Only once had he taken the services one of them had offered, and it had been a much different service than any of them had expected. He had used her as a model for one of his paintings – if there was one thing whores were good at it was being naked. It had worked pretty well until Ezio had stormed in and had clearly misread Leonardo’s intentions (he had simply helped the woman back into her dress, not out of it, which was what Ezio had been thoroughly convinced of – “No need to explain, my friend, I know_ exactly _what’s going on,” he’d said with a wide grin and a rather charming wink that had made Leonardo blush out of, again, entirely different reasons than Ezio’d come up with). After that, Leonardo had never resorted to that again. He hadn’t given up his habit of seeking Teodora’s company though. Much like Paola, he didn’t have to hide in front of her, didn’t need to worry or be ashamed about himself. After all, those women had seen and took care of many kinds of sexual preferences – many of them a lot more sinful than his._

_“Indeed. On a word, please?”_

_Teodora paused, nodded then and gestured for him to follow her, her fingers flowing and fluttering like little birds. Once they were seated in her private chambers, she eyed him again, worry written across her face. “Some tea?”_

_“No, grazie.”_

_She raised her eyebrows at him. “How peculiar. I have not seen you this upset since… well, forever, to tell the truth. Perhaps you should consider to let my girls take care of you. They bring salvation to both body and mind, as you know.”_

_Leonardo blinked and grimaced. “Thank you, Teodora, but I think you know just as well as I do that they cannot tend to me.”_

_A small smile appeared on her face. “You may be surprised.” She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned towards him. “So tell me, friend Leonardo, what troubles you?”_

_He brought a hand to his neck in an attempt to anchor himself. “Well… You do know about my… preferences, sí? The ordeal with the court in Firenze because of, uh-… him.” He couldn’t help but blush and feel ridiculous about himself. It was never a good idea to dig out the dead, and this was a body he’d buried a long time ago. He should have just let it rest, one day, for sure, he’d forget about it, and that day would be the beginning of a good life… But he knew he wouldn’t forget. For one, his brain just wasn’t built to forget. And secondly, there was still Ezio. And Ezio wouldn’t be gone for long enough for him to be able to forget about him._

_Her eyes grew soft. “Oh, yes. I remember. Quite vividly.” She blinked and leaned even closer. “Did you finally decide to come back to my offer? I will find you a fierce youth, Venezia is very rich of young, adventurous men, and I will be very discreet-”_

_“No, it isn’t- Look.” Leonardo laughed frustrated and occupied his hands by playing with the hem of his doublet. “Ezio-”_

_Her face darkened. “What did the stronzo do to you?”_

_He blinked in confusion. “Nothing, signora. You…” He huffed in exasperation. “You told him about the incident.” He’d wanted it to sound like the reproach it was meant to be, but alas… He refrained from cringing at the pathetically weak sound of his voice._

_Teodora inclined her head and pursed her lips. “That I did. Mostly.”_

_“He’s under the impression I wanted to bed and marry a harlot.” He thanked Virgin Mary for not letting his voice break like it had threatened to do._

_Her forehead wrinkled in a matter of a heartbeat and she looked completely alienated for a second, before she pressed her lips together tightly and fought with the laughter that bubbled in her throat. “He… what does that idiota think?”_

_Leonardo sighed, partly in relief, partly in shame. “I don’t know, signora. I was hoping you could help me with that.”_

_She was hiding the lower part of her face behind delicate hands, her eyes gleaming in delight. Leonardo did not think it was quite as amusing and considered getting up and just leaving, but even though he was on edge and clearly not at his best, he didn’t like being impolite, especially not to an honourable lady like Teodora. He leaned his elbows onto his knees and supported his forehead in his hands, trying to block out the slight panic that was taking a hold of him. He did not like this. Not at all. There had been enough trouble because of this in his life already, and he was but a young artist._

_Before he could act on his impatience, she wiped at her eyes and smiled at him widely. “I am truly sorry this upsets you so much, Leonardo. I did not intend any of this.”_

_He paused, letting her words sink in, and then sighed. “I… I do not understand.”_

_She chuckled. “Don’t worry; there is a first time for everything.” Leonardo glared at her from behind his fingers but of course didn’t intimidate her. “Listen, my friend, all I told him was that you had trouble at court for the one you loved, and that you were nearly hanged if it hadn’t been for the Medici. I never said anything about your true nature. About the supposed harlot… He must have drawn this conclusion himself. Do not forget he’s probably rather blind to the extends of sodomy. He’s still so young after all.”_

_That didn’t help Leonardo much; in fact, it made him feel even more dirty… but Teodora couldn’t know about… that, could she. “But why did you mention it at all to him?”_

_He did not like her wide smile, much less the light she had in her eyes._

_“Because he asked about you.”_

_He blinked at her in bewilderment. “Why did he-… What did he want to know?” Why had he not just asked him? Something heavy he did not know the meaning of settled in his stomach._

_“Oh, I do not know. He seemed a bit drunk at the time, pretty confused as well, to be honest. He asked whether you came here often, and who you liked to spend your time with, but… as you know I couldn’t be much of a help. You should have seen the look he wore on his face.” She sighed, shaking her head at the memory. “If I ever saw a man struggling to understand the world but failing at the basics… it would be him.”_

_Leonardo studied her for a moment, unsure of what to say, his fingers, calloused from the hours of building and nicking his skin while handling rough wood, still working nervously along the fabric of his doublet. “Why would he not ask me?”_

_“I am not sure… he looked quite frustrated when I couldn’t help him, and even my girls could not get rid of his mood.” She smiled softly. “I think he just wanted to know more about his best friend, Leonardo.”_

_He blushed. “Oh, I-I do not believe that is what he thinks of me. I am just… someone.”_

_Teodora smiled at him like she knew him inside out; she probably did. “You would not ask someone to go visit a bordello with you, would you?”_

_His throat felt like sandpaper when he tried to swallow past its dryness, fighting the furious blush that quickly took hold of his face. “How did you know-”_

_“You just told me, friend.”_

_Leonardo ground his teeth together in distress, pausing. He was acting like a fool, that much he knew. Ezio had not revealed his secret and was under the firm belief Leonardo had tried to take a harlot under the wings of marriage; he did not know about his past, the mistakes he had let himself make in the rush of heat and sweat and a much too firm body on top of his, the sins he had committed for short-lived pleasure. He did not know how much Leonardo wanted to believe his cravings were barbaric, wrong and insulting God’s name, but could not because all his senses had told him how goddamn right, how downright breath-taking it had felt – that coming from a man who did not care much for the pleasures of the flesh. Ezio did not know anything about his internal struggles and about how he just hoped, nobody would ever bring it up again so that he could forget about it, about the shame he felt for his younger, adventurous self who had insisted in indulging in matters filthy and dangerous, while there were far more cultivated habits in which he could find a much higher kind of pleasure._

_He sighed, focussing on the matter at hand. “…I help him, that is all.”_

_“Is it, after all?”_

_“Ma certo.”_

_She shook her head at him, a lopsided smile sneaking onto her face. “If you say so.” After a moment of letting her words fester in him and enjoying the feeling of having outwitted someone like Leonardo, she smiled warmly, one small hand settling on his shoulder. “You are upset because he brought back the memories of carnal desire, I know. I also know that it is never good to ignore your needs, and even much worse denying your own feelings.” He looked up at her, frustration probably much more evident to her than he would have liked. “He is but a naïve boy playing with his father’s sword. He has yet to become a man. Do not deny him what he clearly needs.”_

_He gulped and got to his feet quickly. “I need to leave, thank you for your time and advice, madonna-“ his words got muffled when he kissed the back of hand “-and I hope to be seeing you soon again. Arrivederci.”_

_Teodora’s words would echo in his head even after bidding her farewell and returning to his bottega._

When he opened his eyes, Leonardo was confused. Seconds ago he had been sitting at his desk, tapping his fingers against the hard wooden surface in distress because he was not used to the emptiness in his brain Ezio had bestowed upon him, to the boredom and inconsistency of thought that now towered over him. He must have fallen asleep, yes, of course he had, once again. That was why he was feeling somewhat dishevelled… this must have been what his food felt like when he chewed it. 

But it didn’t explain the soft buzzing and the strange smell in his nose as though there was no smell… it was most peculiar. He blinked tiredly against the dim light, nothing like the soft orange hue of Venetian evening sun, and pushed himself up onto shaky hands from where he was lying on his back, and suddenly he felt starved and cold and worn out all at once. Perhaps he was riding a fever again… he better not. His commissioner would not take lightly to another delay of his moustached lady’s portray.

His sight slowly adapted to the bizarre lighting, and his head felt too heavy for his neck, so it took him a while to wake up properly, and then he became aware of his surroundings and himself, and he froze. Before the thought that the trousers he wore were of a very odd material and that something could not be right with his head if his desk suddenly glowed in rays of azure light, could disappear, he groaned and hid his eyes behind his hands. He was not Leonardo. He was Elijah… how could he have forgotten?

He got up on shaky legs, trying to shake off the feeling of that man from the past clinging to him desperate for him to get into the machine again so he could live, but Eli sank to the floor for a few moments, his head at the same time too noisy and too silent. Coming back from the machine proved to be a nightmare, and he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to it or if it would become worse each time when he got back to his ancestors, or if he would get sick from it and be handed over to the medical department as a lab rat-

And then it finally hit him.

He’d just seen the world through the eyes of one wondrous man, a creator without peer, a man considered one of the most genius artists and inventors in the history of mankind… and, although it was completely impossible – it _had_ to be – and not even close to sounding like more than a bad joke to his ears; that man was his ancestor. 

Leonardo da Vinci.

He was the descendant of Leonardo da Vinci.

As far as Eli knew, Leonardo had never had an heir, which was why his heritage had been passed over to his apprentice Francesco Melzi – of course, this information had already been proven wrong; otherwise he could not have entered Leonardo’s memories, could he. What had happened for the whole world, including renowned historians, to believe the man had remained without child throughout his life for centuries? If this piece of information about Leonardo da Vinci’s life had been wrong all these years, what else that was a well-known fact would prove to be wrong? Eli swallowed heavily, his head dizzy at the prospect of having his world turned upside down. Also, who was that mysterious man, Ezio? 

And, most of all, what the hell was wrong with him for missing the man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_
> 
>  
> 
> bottega – workshop  
> stronzo – asshole  
> idiota – idiot  
> bordello - brothel  
> ma certo – yes/of course  
> madonna – milady


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo did not bother telling Ezio that he couldn’t possibly surprise him for his birthday if he kept having it on another date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am really sorry that I didn't upload since forever. University has just started over here and it has been eating me alive in the last weeks, so I couldn't sit down and write more than a few sentences for weeks, and I didn't want to mess the story up by posting something rushed and thoughtless. I hope you will like this chapter none the less (and a few comments, good or bad ones so that I know if this is readable/read by anyone at all, would certainly not slow me down ;-))._

It hadn’t taken Eli long to come up with a few rather concerning strings of thought.

He was the descendant of Leonardo da Vinci. He had to be. Yes, the machine was designed to explore the lives of those who lived before, but it was also limited. The person connected to it needed to be a direct relative to the other. 

What was he to do with the knowledge he’d found through a machine that wasn’t even supposed to exist?

Could it be trusted or might it have been corrupted? He supposed not. After all, he was, for now, the only man who knew how to handle the device, and he would have felt it if it was corrupted, wouldn’t he.

He had not only seen through Leonardo’s eyes. He had felt the man, both within himself as well as without, but he found himself unable to determine whether the man had been present with him or as him. If he’d felt Leonardo… perhaps Leonardo had felt him as well?

He needed to go back. There were too many questions he could not answer yet, and now he felt Leonardo tug him towards the machine more and more. For one, there were technical questions that needed to be answered that should, he hoped, prove pretty simple to answer.

And there was a feeling in his gut that there was so much more than just this; things much more… _dangerous_ waiting to be discovered.

Struggling with the tilt of his world at the path his thoughts were taking, he let his head sink against the cold steel of his machine, his arms dangling helplessly at his sides, fingers looking for something to hold onto on the floor. He took a moment to breathe and let everything settle. Hopefully his heart rate would calm down soon as well; right now it reminded him a little too much of a little hummingbird on the uncomfortable end of a shotgun. He looked up to find Frances staring down at him in a mixture of warning, question and boredom, his eyes dull as usual, his fingers very obviously itching for something to grab. He flinched when Elijah cleared his throat – he had not wanted that the man would see him like this, so weak and vulnerable even though he hadn’t even seen anything bad this time. After all, he’d just found out that he did not only have rapists and murderers and crazies in his bloodline but a rather decent ancestor with issues concerning his sexual orientation Eli could not care less about. At least having Leonardo da Vinci in his genes finally explained his obsession with art, knowledge, and creating things. While it did form questions, it also answered a few; he should feel empowered and respectable, and surely Leonardo would not be proud of him if he let himself go like this over a bit of weak knees and a body that had seemed to age tenfold over the last few hours.

He got up to his feet, ignoring the white lines flashing at the corners of his eyes. He would simply take a break and get back into that thing until Abstergo was satisfied that he had tested it enough, so that they would let him go back to his normal life, completely unconcerned about the fact that his ancestry was a little more peculiar than he would have guessed, and do whatever they wanted to do with that machine. He didn’t even want credit for it, much less money; it was perfectly fine if they let him go back to his paintings and strange projects and unfriendly commissioners.

Even after a break of feeding himself and trying to keep it in, Eli was still convinced of the integrity of his plan. When he lied down on the machine under Frances’ unwavering stare, he felt nothing but curiosity and faith that all would come out just fine, and that all he had to do was take everything his ancestors had to give until the machine stopped spitting him out in the middle of it all or locking him in until it shut down from the effort. He even looked forward to coming back to Leonardo; after all, the man was a great artist, looked up to by so many in Eli’s time and so unaware of the fact that one day, millions of people would travel hundreds of miles just to look at a painting of a woman with no eyebrows that smiled as though she perfectly understood everything – both the world, and those dirty little secrets you tried to hide.

Perhaps Leonardo had known that look so well, because he’d had enough to hide himself.

That last thought circling in his head, he felt himself slowly slip away into a state between being wide awake and deeply immersed in a dream, until he suddenly, unexpectedly, came to. Coming back to this life felt like a slap in the face.

_Venezia had been taken by a savage heat; the kind that robbed you of your senses, that made you sweat more liquids than you could drink if you ever so much as dared to step outside, that made you pass out from the force of the sun and wake up to find your skin a shade of crimson that would’ve looked lovely on a pig. Even though Leonardo was of fair complexion, his skin sprinkled with freckles as though it was cinnamon, he didn’t mind the sun that much, or the heat in that respect. When he was little, his madre used to call him her yellow-haired devil whenever he returned home from a day out in the fields, his nose, cheeks, and shoulders rosy. During his apprenticeship under Andrea del Verocchio, his master had encouraged him to go outside, to seek inspiration for the fictional in the non-fictional. Even though at that time he would’ve preferred staying inside hunched over sketchbooks or staring at paintings trying to figure out why it looked so wrong and failing gloriously, he’d taken his master’s advice. Messer Verocchio had taken him outside, him and Lorenzo and the other apprentices, into the hills that surrounded la bella città di Firenze, and had taught them how to sketch birds in flight. Since that day, Leonardo, even when holed up in his bottega for many hours, always felt at ease when outside._

_Leonardo didn’t know who or what was up there that gave form, but he knew it was the sun that gave life. That was why he enjoyed it and the heat it brought._

_But today, its sweltering force_ did _cross his limits of tolerance._

_The bulky cages felt heavy in his arms, they blocked his line of sight, and from time to time, there was a nervously flapping wing smacking him in the face or a small beak picking at his fingers or a shrill sound of panic from a small bird’s throat._

_They attracted uncomfortable attention. Calming them proved a fruitless effort._

_At least the heat provided enough of a burden for most people to stay inside for the hottest time of the day, so that it wasn’t_ all _of Venezia staring him down that day._

_Finally, he reached his destination – a small side canal rich of stale air and the smell of fish and human excrements to keep away people, leading out into the vast ocean. He put down the cages and stretched his back with a quiet groan. Much like their inhabitants, the cages had come in all forms and colours, but all of them were much too small for any living being – horrifyingly small in Leonardo’s opinion. But alas, there were people keeping birds in them, wives and daughters of noblemen, and their courtesans. The merchants selling them caught them faster than he could’ve ever freed them, some were even shipped in from the North or from Arabia. And with a little bit of bad luck, he would eventually free the same bird twice.  
In the end, he couldn’t free all the captured birds in Venezia, so he tried not to mind them._

_Sitting down on the small pier surrounded by his own personal choir of birdsong, he considered sketching a few of those birds, but refrained. The little creatures deserved the freedom they had been given by nature, and the sooner he let them go the bigger a chance they had to learn how to adapt and care for themselves; much like humans, over thousands of years, had adapted to different climates and predators and eventually managed to survive, settle down, build, learn, teach, destroy, create, and conquer. The only place humans had not yet conquered were the skies, which belonged only to the avian. But Leonardo was convinced that one day, he would finally find the secret behind birds’ flight._

_He had dreamed of flying since he’d watched swallows in flight as a small boy lying on his back in a poppy field. And whenever he got the chance, he sketched different stages of wing movement._

_For a few minutes, he took pleasure in the colours of a red-breasted robin and the slight quivering of the feathers in the breeze, but then unlocked and opened the cages, coaxing out the birds that had grown too accustomed to their confine. The wind took up a bit, carrying the salty tang of the sea to his nose as he shushed away a bird that had sat down on the pier looking at him in confusion until it finally took off, its wings fluttering and struggling against its own weight. When he lost sight of it, he leaned back on his hands and sighed._

_Usually, Venezia was a very vibrant city, her people lively and shallow, the water in her canals dazzling in the sunlight and betraying the stench that came from them, her houses coming in bright variations of colours. But the sun had left her helpless against the heat. Venezia was sleepy, unable to live up to her standards, her silence heavy on his ears, only one step away from a ghost town._

_So it wasn’t, really wasn’t Leonardo’s fault when he flinched and yelped at a voice loud and clear behind his back._

_“What are you doing?”_

_The stark outline of a familiar figure clad in white had manifested itself from the shadows of the alleyway. A strong jaw, sharp nose and a recognisable scar were visible under his hood, and his weapons, retracted claws of a wild lion, reflected the sunlight as though he was a peacock showing off his colourful feathers. For just a moment there, Leonardo understood how an innocent, cheeky boy of noble blood could’ve turned into the mysterious assassino who, if one believed the stories nobody ever spoke out loud, thirsted for blood and vengeance._

_But then, Ezio stepped out into the direct light, pushed back his hood to air out the hair that stuck to his face, small rivulets of sweat gathering in the creases of his skin, and the moment of anxiety and awe passed to a warm feeling of safety and… probably something else, and he smiled when Ezio perched next to him on the dock._

_“Freeing the birds?” Leonardo replied, cocking his eyebrow. It was fairly obvious after all._

_Ezio stared at him for a moment as though waiting for further explanation, which was quite ridiculous considering the abandoned cages around Leonardo and the distinct lack of birdsong. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then shook his head and said: “I am not even going to ask why.”_

_Leonardo chuckled and lifted his hand to pat on Ezio’s thigh before reconsidering and letting it drop uselessly between his legs that dangled from the pier. “What took you to this part of the city? In such heat, no less.”_

_“Oh, nothing much, I was just looking for a nice place to go through my daily routine of stretches and freeing birds and stuff, so…” He grinned devilishly when Leonardo sent him one of his looks – one of those that were equivalent to one of La Volpe’s vicious jabs of elbow-into-rib but noticeably less violent._

_“Of course, Ezio.”_

_“Naturally. Do you have any idea how much more relaxing morning stretches are when surrounded by this stench?” His eyes flickered to the unhealthily coloured canal water that sloshed against the houses and revealed all sorts of living organisms and traces of human excrements during low tide. Leonardo could almost see him shudder. Ezio had already taken several involuntary baths in the canals of Venezia, sometimes appearing on Leonardo’s doorstep shivering, dripping and very obviously grossed out._

_The rose petals and lanterns that were sometimes dropped onto the canals during carnevale could only partially hide their ugliness. Quite much like the whores that came to Venezia during carnevale from all parts of the country; with all the masks, the wine, and exposed bosoms they could look rather – well, he supposed, endearing was certainly the wrong word – but when you woke up in the morning next to one of them, you couldn’t get away far enough, fast enough. That had happened to Leonardo once, in the early years of his apprenticeship Messer Verocchio had taken him and Lorenzo to Venezia to introduce them to the up- and downsides of a life dependent on the rich, the noble, and those striving to be so. He and Lorenzo, caught up in the throes of youth, had been lured in by a group of courtesans, but that experience – and Messer Verocchios strong sense of punishment by hard labour and his well-built hand – had been enough to scare him off until today._

_Ezio was now leaning back on his hands and still smiling smugly. “To be honest, I was looking for you. But your bottega was… empty.” He bit his lower lip, and despite the fact that it made Leonardo stare at his full lips that suddenly seemed so much more obvious than before, Leonardo groaned exasperatedly._

_“You broke in again, didn’t you?”_

_“I did not break in. It is not my fault that your bedroom window is so easily accessible.”_

_“You entered my house without permission. That is breaking in.”_

_“So I am not permitted into your house?” Ezio drawled, leaning his head to the side and looking at him from under his lashes. Leonardo sighed and looked away in irritation. His resistance to this pout was practically inexistent. He didn’t even have to say that Ezio was of course permitted into his house at any time, his defeat was already obvious._

_“How did you find me then?”_

_“A trickster does not explain his tricks; an assassino does not explain his tricks,” he replied solemnly._

_“_ Ezio _.”_

_“I asked Rosa.”_

_“How does Rosa know?”_

_Ezio shrugged. “Rosa is Rosa. She does not like sharing her tricks.”_

_“Oh, I know someone just like her.”_

_Ezio rolled his eyes. “Anyway. She pointed me into your direction. Also, those birds were really noisy. It was easy following them. I meant-” he paused and pushed his hand into the depths of his clothes, pulling out some bits and pieces he dropped to the side or into Leonardo’s lap to hold, before he found what he was looking for, “to give you… this.”_

_His face lit up. “Oh, you found another one! How exciting!” He took the tightly rolled and sealed parchment from Ezio’s gloved hand, eager to decode and read it right now but instead let it slip into one of his pockets to take back to his bottega. The codices Ezio brought him always bore new secrets to be revealed, things to learn about fascinating artefacts and designs to stunning inventions; it was an offer Leonardo could never decline, no matter how deep he was buried in commissions and his personal projects that featured “lots of scientific gibberish and funny sketches”, how Ezio put it._

_“And I also wanted to tell you,” a grin spread over his face, one that made him cringe, “that we’re going out. Tonight.”_

_Leonardo’s eyebrows rose up just below his hat. “Going out?”_

_“Yes. To celebrate my birthday.”_

_“Your birthday was already more than a month ago, Ezio.”_

_Ezio shushed him. “We are going out no less.”_

_“What are we doing?”_

_The grin got wider. “It is a surprise.”_

_“Shouldn’t I be the one to surprise you if it is your birthday?”_

_“As you are obviously missing out on this chance, I will be doing the surprising for once.”_

_Leonardo did not bother telling Ezio that he couldn’t possibly surprise him for his birthday if he kept having it on another date. “Can you at least tell me where we are going?”_

_Ezio was obviously very entertained. “Do not worry, my friend. Just take a bath and you’ll be fine.”_

_A bath. Ezio had just told him to take a bath. Leonardo tried not to feel offended. He did not smell!_

_“So it is nothing special?”_

_“Oh, but it is.”_

_“Stop acting like a child, Ezio,” Leonardo reprimanded him. He did not like riddles. Well, he did, but only ones he could solve. Ezio was not one of those._

_“You’ll see. We are going to have lots of fun, believe me.”_

_Leonardo sighed and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Alright.”_

_Ezio got up in one fluent movement and patted Leonardo’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine, trust me, Leo.”_

_He suppressed another sigh – that stupid adorable pet name. “Yes.” How could he not?_

_Ezio presented him with a large, bright smile, one that made Leonardo smile back like a fool, and took off in a rush of white robes and red sash and an “Arrivederci”._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_  
>   
> 
> madre – mother  
> la bella città di Firenze – the beautiful city of Florence  
> bottega – workshop  
> carnevale – carnival  
> assassino – assassin, murderer  
> arrivederci – goodbye
> 
>  
> 
> Also, many thanks to OpalLight for pointing out il mio sbaglio in italiano (which was probably wrong again...) :)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He liked to think that Ezio needed their friendship for more reasons than just his talent with decoding ancient texts and dressing wounds. The realisation that the man possibly didn’t see it that way was a bitter one. Leonardo had seen him charm his way into all sorts of favours, and perhaps he was doing the same to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my name is Hlaalu and sometimes I don't post for a very long time and I'm sorry   
>    
> ~~(Feedback appreciated)~~   
> 

_Leonardo was not entirely clueless about how they would pass Ezio’s “fun night out”. There was no doubt in what was going to happen. They would start out with a friendly hug and a cheeky smile from Ezio that would leave him both helpless and suspicious about his plans. Then, they would leave to see some “friends”, and at some point, he would find himself intoxicated with too much wine and with an even more drunk Ezio hanging on his arm either laughing or crying, two in five times both. And Leonardo would appreciate the company of his dearest friend so much more than the bunch of rude thieves or forcibly intellectual Antonio they had spent the evening with. And the next day, when he came back to his senses, he would, with unfailing certainty, regret; Ezio was quick in building up Leonardo’s hopes, but just as quick in turning them to ashes with a friendly clap on his back while turning to watch a courtesan’s hips sway in her step._

_Leonardo had done as Ezio had told. He had indeed taken a bath and tried to get rid of all the paint that seemed to be attached to his limbs permanently, in creases he was absolutely sure were covered in cloth when he painted; with mixed results. In the middle of cleaning himself though, he’d had an idea for his moving lion automobile that would most certainly be its breakthrough, so that he’d had to run naked and dripping water and a little bit of soap from his hair down to his_ bottega _, hunched over just in case his assistant was still somewhere around here, because he had been unable to find his towel. After finding a spare piece of parchment and a quill, he had quickly written down his thoughts, grinning in triumph, before hectically slipping back into his bathtub, happy that he had not been caught by anyone. Ezio could’ve once again come in from his bedroom window without his consent, and had he seen him in this state… Leonardo didn’t think he could have ever lived it down._

_And now the thought of being naked in a room with Ezio was stuck in his head. The day couldn’t even get worse. He thought._

_He didn’t expect too much from tonight. Last time Ezio had taken him out, they had been to the infamous thieves’ headquarters, drinking_ caffè _with Rosa and a gentleman called Antonio but soon settling for wine instead when Ezio had declared the beverage “something vicious”. Antonio had clearly not been pleased when Ezio had suggested to mixed it with some sugar or perhaps some milk, but luckily, before the discussion could get out of hand, Rosa had “found” them several bottles of heavy wine that was no good for drinking but great for getting drunk. Leonardo’s stomach hadn’t taken it so well, so that the evening had ended rather abruptly when he had excused himself. Half an hour later, Ezio had found him hanging over the pier, miserable, and he had accompanied him home and even tugged him in bed. Leonardo thought it was only fair, since he had done so for Ezio often enough when he’d appeared in his_ bottega _drunk out of his mind. He would guide him up to his bedroom, answer every question the man asked in this state with “Yes, yes” and “Of course, Ezio”, and pull off his boots and the bulky parts of his armour and weapons. By the time he would be done with that, Ezio was usually fast asleep._

_Leonardo didn’t mind the nights Ezio slept in his room. The only time the man was drunk enough to do so was when he was also drunk enough to think of Leonardo’s broom as his sister Claudia, reminding it of its duties and swearing at the men of Monteriggioni that had looked at it for too long. Otherwise, he was stubborn and sober enough to decline all of Leonardo’s offers and prefer sleeping in a chair, even though Leonardo often worked nights and didn’t even use his bed that much. Leonardo was happy to help when it came to Ezio, he had known him for many years, more importantly had known him before the incident with his family that had thrown the boy completely out of kilter._

_He liked to think that Ezio needed their friendship for more reasons than just his talent with decoding ancient texts and dressing wounds. The realisation that the man possibly didn’t see it that way was a bitter one. Leonardo had seen him charm his way into all sorts of favours, and perhaps he was doing the same to him?_

_He cherished the times Ezio visited him just for the sake of conversation or even company, or in moments of vulnerability when he was wounded – or drunk. Leonardo had often thought about why Ezio drank so much wine when it was obvious that it wasn’t good for him, and one day he had realised it was to kill the pain. After that, though still disapproving of the amounts of alcohol Ezio consumed, he had stopped complaining about it and had decided to take care of him instead and prove that his trust was well-placed._

_So yes, he was rather curious about what Ezio had planned for tonight that would be so “special”._

_It was difficult to stay focused on his work. His thoughts strayed to Ezio turning up on his threshold in noblemen’s attire, feet crossed underneath him, a bold smile adorning his lips that would immediately become Leonardo’s focus of interest. Whatever the scar had done to Ezio, it hadn’t cost him any of his looks, and his lips were still the lips of a charmer._

_It was a lot easier imagining the scene unfolding in his head than the one under the trembling tip of his quill._

_“_ Buona sera _, Leonardo.”_

_Leonardo swallowed to try and pull some fluid into his mouth that had become as dry as the Levantine plains in a matter of seconds. He knew exactly the silken quality of Ezio’s words as they slid over his tongue like a hint of sunlight on a stream of liquid gold, while Leonardo would have to pull up all his confidence not to stumble over his own. “Ezio. You look… different.”_

_Ezio pouted. Of course he did, in Leonardo’s mind. “Well. You could have said that a bit more enthusiastically given the fact that I look ottimo in this, don’t you think?”_

_“I didn’t think you were looking to impress me, friend Ezio,” he would reply, happy about his hair that hid the red tint his ears had most surely taken._

_Laughter poured from Ezio’s mouth like warm honey. “Of course not, but a man likes to hear a good-natured compliment from time to time.” He eyed Leonardo through his lashes. “Your hat looks great on you today, by the way.”_

_Leonardo almost snorted out loud into the silence of his_ bottega _. Indeed, Ezio_ did _know exactly how to charm his way into any kind of arrangement. “Very well. You look_ ottimo _in this.”_

_He imagined the broad grin on Ezio’s face, the smoothness of the way he fixated Leonardo on the spot with his stare, the way Leonardo would not look away until Ezio had to blink, the way he would be satisfied about his daring staring contest that could have taken ages for all he’d known, and before he could stop himself, his hand, clawed into his knee from the path his straying thoughts had taken, glided up and down his thigh slowly, tauntingly, before he stretched and kneaded them thoroughly. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips as he willed away the burning hot feeling of desire threatening to boil over in his lower abdomen. He had work to do, and it wouldn’t serve anyone if he kept holding on to those foolish hopes of his. He would follow Ezio tonight, let him celebrate thoroughly, catch him before he hit the ground in his glorious fall into hangover and then go back to his empty_ bottega _and the silent whispers of regret._

_Of course, as always in the hopeful and the good-spirited, everything ended up entirely unexpectedly._

_Leonardo jumped in his seat when a hard fist descended upon his door. Ezio really needed to learn how to knock without almost breaking the wood. On the other hand, he really should be thankful that Ezio had at all considered his feelings this time and hadn’t just walked in over the threshold or climbed in through the window in Leonardo’s_ private _chambers. He quickly got to his feet, checking on his hair and hat in distress, then scolding himself for being so childish. Just as he reached the door, the knock repeated itself, more quickly this time, the noise echoing from his walls. He grabbed the handle and pushed it open, irritated, opening his lips to scold-_

_The words died in his mouth when an angry Rosa pushed over the threshold, forcing Leonardo out of the way._

_“What-”_

_A group of thieves followed, dragging between them a lifeless figure clad in white. Leonardo felt his heart drop miles and miles when he recognised Ezio, and his hands went cold when he saw the arrow obtrude from his left shoulder. Leonardo was sure the gods had started raining boiling hot water over him that formed a solid bubble around him, making his movements slow, his vision blurry, drowning everything around him instead of himself._

_Falling into an automated routine of breathing and assessing the situation without panicking, he rushed over to the long table he used for sketching and, completely unaware and uncaring of the damage he did to his works, pushed off the piles of sketches and scattered papers and quills and miniature models of his automobile. “Carefully, carefully!” he said and hurried over to the thieves. He grunted when he helped them drag an unmoving Ezio onto the table. His eyes skimmed over his form, quickly locating his injuries._

_Pale quality of skin, sweaty, cold. Scratches on his left cheek. Quick, fluttering pulse. Deep gash on his thigh just above his knee. Critical but not immediately fatal. Heavy laceration on the back of his head, bone probably unscathed. Dangerous if not treated immediately. Arrow in his left shoulder, growing blossom of blood. Arrowhead protruding from his back. Went through cleanly from a high angle. Probability of fatality… high._

_Not losing any time with the questions that burned in his throat, Leonardo grabbed the dagger fastened untouched to Ezio’s belt and cut open his shirt. His fingers didn’t tremble, his movements were controlled and efficient, the cold sweat erupting on his forehead was one of stress, not of panic, and he knew he could work under the influence of stress._

_But he could not stop the sympathetic wince when Ezio howled, the arrow being ripped from his body, leaving a gush of blood in its wake that Leonardo could not stop, would never be able to stop. Blood that left the body of his Ezio chilled and hardly moving, and that brought darkness over his eyes like the heavy silken cloth of death._

_But Ezio_ couldn’t _die. Could he? It wasn’t possible for him to die… And Leonardo knew he was lying to himself. He had cut open dead bodies in much better conditions often enough to know the fragility of human life, and with every drop of blood he felt it slip away from his hands like the wings of butterfly fluttering against his fingers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_  
> 
> bottega - workshop  
> caffè - coffee  
> buona sera - good evening  
> ottimo - very good


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo had been a victim of his own imagination, creating weapons meant to destroy what he cherished the most. And Elijah was really good at following in his footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those readers out there for your kind words! You people really keep this thing alive. Now let's get on with some dark!fic, shall we >:D?

The sensation of waking up was similar to the one of falling just before you hit sleep, except that there was no real end, no threshold to cross, to falling into consciousness. There was a lot of noise going on in or around his head. Hearing felt sluggish and wrong, his senses sticky, the pathway back to himself no more than a narrow tunnel he didn’t even want to fit through. Going back to reality was like praying to get to hell; contrary to everything he wanted, and the stupidest thing he’d ever done since signing the goddamn contract. _Ezio_ was in there _dying_ , he _needed_ Leonardo, he needed _him_!

His eyes opened without his doings. The contrasts of reality were stark and cold and odd against the warm oils Leonardo’s world was painted in. It felt like a cruel mockery of truth laughing in his face at his confusion and pain. He felt his vision adjust, finally adding silent realms and deep layers that made the parody of life more realistic but still no more than a parody. He knew real life was here, with him, right now, but his memories, loud and clear in vivid colour, said otherwise. He knew he was not Leonardo, but he might as well be, because he most certainly wasn’t Elijah either. If he was neither of them… who was he?

Finally, breaking through the surface of consciousness felt like being sucked through the neck of a bottle into a suit that he knew belonged to him but smelled like it belonged to a stranger. Clutching at the closest thing to his hands, which happened to be the edge of his machine, he gasped in deep breaths with heaving lungs. The tight contraption of his body hurt, and his fingernails scraped across metal, just one step away from trying to scratch off his own skin in an attempt to ease the pain. Then there were hands, six, seven, no, eight of them, three pairs grabbing at him and pinning his limbs to overheated steel in his back, one pair soothingly touching his chest, his shoulders, his forehead. The panic of a dead man coming back to life grabbed at his throat when the full sensory input hit him in the face just moments before one startlingly hard hand could.

Surprise drove all strength from his limbs. He stared up, wide eyed, into the soft contours of Lucy’s face, her expression disclosing blank guilt before it went back to something like guarded concern. Only now he realised he was panting for breath, his throat rasping, his chest heavy on his lungs. Then, there was the sensation of hot wax dripping into his eyes and onto his cheeks, and he realised he was crying, his nerve endings lit on fire in panic and confusion. The next thing he knew he was bending over the edge of the machine and emptying his stomach onto the floor. It felt like he was trying to throw up sand.

There was a soothing hand, small and warm, pulling his hair back and caressing his neck. When he finally came back to himself, sitting up and slumping down, staring at a spot between his knees, he felt shame crawl up his spine and settle over his cheeks in a blush.

Good God, this was so fucked up. He himself most of all.

Lucy was still there, stroking circles into his back, her youth and kindness so prominent on the soft canvas of her face. She crouched down in front of him. “This needs to stop.”

Elijah just stared at her for a second before her words registered. At least she hadn’t bothered asking if he was alright. He was not, and apparently, he was the last person to realise. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he pushed back all the empty words crowding his tongue. Lucy patted his leg and got up, grabbing her clipboard, and started towards the door, but then stopped before she crossed the threshold. She hesitated as though steeling herself, then she turned around and nodded at Frances, Jekyll and Hyde. “Thank you. You are done here.”

Elijah observed in wonder as the three men left his workroom without so much as looking at him. When the door closed behind them with a hiss, Lucy stepped forward, hugging her clipboard close. “Look, I… I’d really like to mark this experiment as flawed and let it go back to research so we can put you back home. But it is vital for Abstergo Industries… for me that this works, so…” She cut herself off, closing her mouth. For one second, the uncomfortable thought that her wording was meant to be taken seriously in a literal sense, passed Eli’s mind, but he pushed it away, as it was clearly ridiculous. He’d become so wary and distrustful of his environment in the last few months, and he didn’t want it to become a habit.

“I just really want you to know that-”

“You don’t have to say anything, Lucy.”

She blinked in confusion. “I… don’t?”

He smiled, using all of his remaining strength not to let it look pained. “I know how important this is to all of you. It’s supposed to be a milestone in research, after all, isn’t it.” He chuckled lightly, holding back a cringe at the pure wrongness of it all. “I will see to my needs and then get back to work immediately. I’ll just need to figure out how to make it stop overheating. And I might need to look into that translation program again, something about their wording feels a bit off sometimes, like their from another century, you know. Well they are, obviously, but… Do you want to switch between ancestors? Because some of them clearly are, uh…,” he choked out a laugh, kneading at his hands to hide their trembling, “very persistent. I could try to-”

“How long?”

Elijah looked up in surprise, falling to silence at the look of horror on Lucy’s face before she got back control over her features. “How long? I don’t know, perhaps a few weeks, could be months.”

“No. How long have you been in there?” Her voice was still soft even though her face was guarded and distant, and her knuckles white from clinging to the clipboard that was still tugged to her chest in a poor imitation of a shield.

Elijah exhaled shakily, averting his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Around 9 pm.”

He snorted softly. “What date?”

He heard Lucy inhale sharply. “ _Christ_ , Elijah.”

“I don’t exactly know.” But given his bodily condition and the bare thread his mind was hanging onto, he’d guess it had been two days. He hadn’t had a real break from the machine since before the Deirdre incident. But he couldn’t be sure; spending time in the presence of a genius like Leonardo was a timeless experience, tugged safely into the borderless confines of a man who would observe a thousand living things at once and still be absorbed into a painting for days without noticing the speed at which life occurred around him. It was an abstract system of slow life and fast mind, of endless curiosity and a zero tolerance for not knowing; a combination that made Eli’s heart flutter in anticipation and his fingers itch in nervousness. Knowing the man’s perspective of the world was like a rush of blood to his head, which was reeling at the potential and the possibilities. The emotion of guilty pleasure was a meaningless side product from exploring a man’s deepest thoughts and feelings, understanding what moved him and what grounded him perhaps even better than the man himself…

… and observing Leonardo da Vinci’s life fall to shreds in one unexpected moment of truth.

Lucy was staring at him, pity written across her features in shades of softly hued blue. He didn’t want to see it. All he could think of was getting back to Ezio and pulling him back to life violently, when he knew best of all that Ezio’s life didn’t depend on him, never had and never would. Ezio had already died, long, long ago; in fact it didn’t even matter if he had died that day, the next day or some fifty years later. It didn’t help if Eli joined as a spectator to death, wanting to help, to yell, to do _something_ , but being held back – by the grip of some spooky machine doing tricks to his brain to lay bare what his body had tried to lock away safely in his DNA. He clasped his hands tightly in a helpless attempt to cut off his string of thought, and, more importantly, the emotions attached to them.

He got to his feet, ignoring the mess he’d made on the floor bare minutes ago, and directed a politely distant smile at Lucy, who was still standing there, unmoving. “I will send word when the machine is ready for further use.”

“Right.” 

Lucy startled into movement and hurried towards the door, her cheeks tinted red and her eyes wide in an expression Elijah knew all to well as the desire to escape. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. And, Lucy?” 

She turned around and looked at him, her gaze faltering twice before he continued. 

“Trust me.”

Lucy steadied herself with a hand on the wall, her eyes soft and questioning, her body even more tense than before. A few moments passed, then she nodded and left, her heals cluttering against the tiles faster than they usually did.

Elijah slumped against his machine, digging his palms into his eyes and groaning. He forced himself upright. It wouldn’t serve anyone if he lost his mind before finishing his job. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility of Dr. Vidic shoving unknowing people into the monster he’d created before he’d managed to tame it. And there was the harsh feeling of guilt and compassion for Leonardo: he’d have to return to him. He’d have to see this through with him to the end. If he left now-

The cold realisation that it didn’t actually make a difference to anyone but him sank to the bottom of his stomach. 

Angry, he punched in the code to send the machine into hibernation. The walk back to his personal quarters under the emotionless stare of Jekyll and Hyde was a walk of shame.

Even though he clearly needed sleep, it didn’t come easy that night. Elijah had somehow gotten under his covers and hadn’t moved since then. His eyes were scanning the ceiling he couldn’t even see in the dark, all encompassing and still unsettling, as though he was waiting for a revelation to appear on it. Anxiety mixed with guilt, worry, and outright fear warred in his body, and had he not already emptied his stomach in his workroom, he would have thought he was going to throw up any second. He was kept on edge like this all night. 

Thoughts about Ezio and the way the draining blood simultaneously drained his handsome sun-kissed skin of all colour, the way he’d looked and felt dead to Leonardo, while he theoretically knew he was still alive, barely, but still alive, took turns with wondering if he was only losing his mind or if it had already happened. 

And then came the thoughts about what he’d done: he’d built a machine that invaded people’s minds, left them open and vulnerable. He hated to think that way, but he guessed a less trained, less conscious mind than his might have already broken under the influence of the _thing_. In all honesty, he begged to some celestial being to just turn him and the machine, and Abstergo Industries while they were at it, into shameful dust, so that nobody would ever find out about the obnoxious thing he’d created. When Elijah had found out about his grand ancestor Leonardo, he’d felt honoured and determined to make him proud (which was completely devoid of logic, he was aware of that; there was no sense in wanting to make a dead man proud). But now he feared that he’d just spit on his grave.

It was ironic, wasn’t it? Elijah knew about Leonardo da Vinci’s life, the historical Leonardo da Vinci; of course he did, he was an artist. Leonardo had in the course of his career, while adoring life and all forms it was capable of taking, invented some of the most horrific war machines in human history: wagons with rotating knives the size of a grown man attached in order to rid the fleeing enemy of their legs just one of the more memorable ones. Leonardo had been a victim of his own imagination, creating weapons meant to destroy what he cherished the most.

And Elijah was really good at following in his footsteps.

The shame, the horror he felt at the idea of having actively built a war machine, even under pressure, delighted at the way his genius had showed at times, but too naïve to realise that the weapon he gave birth to could do much worse than kill, settled underneath his skin like an infection that would take years to get rid of. And he knew he deserved it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t help but find solace in the certitude that he had indeed lost his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Important:**   
>  In case you just got here, make sure to also read the chapter before this one, because I've posted those two in a row, not just this one. Just so you know :)!

Elijah fell asleep shortly before dusk, simply because his body couldn’t sustain itself running on low energy and no food. He’d exhausted himself to the point where he couldn’t feel the exhaustion anymore. The machine was taking its toll, and took it violently. Before he even realised he was asleep, _a ray of sunlight travelled across his workshop, from the small window through the thin membrane of his prototype flying machine and a small array of shards of glass in various dancing colours. He blinked into it from where he was sitting, breathing deeply, feeling warm and cosy from sleep that had enveloped him in a velvet blanket. He did not want to move and instead squinted against the light, slowly sorting out his body parts, locating them and softly tensing his muscles. One hand rested on his stomach, fingers curled into a loose fist. His legs felt boneless, his backside and the soles of his feet stiff from the uncomfortable position he’d probably been in all night. He must have fallen asleep on one of his countless projects again, or perhaps someone else was taking his bed, like Ezio-_

_He tensed and sat up in shock, blinking sleep from his eyes. Ezio was stretched out on his working table, and Leonardo quickly took in his pale skin and tense shoulders, the unnatural posture and pained expression on that handsome boyish face, looking so horrifyingly dead to the world, like one of the mannequins he let his apprentice experiment with for his sketches . He felt his tension ease a bit when he noticed Ezio’s shoulders and chest were moving – barely, but still moving. His breath rushed from his lungs in a relieved sigh as he realised that Ezio had made it through to the next morning. He knew from experience that dusk was the most difficult time for a weakened body, but Ezio had survived the night._

_He moved to check Ezio’s condition immediately, carefully stepping around Rosa who was leaning against one sturdy table leg, and one of her stealthy friends that had stayed over night, a boy young and broad, small but strong, that reminded Leonardo of Ezio at their first acquaintance. Rosa had been awake almost as long as Leonardo, but had given in to sleep when she realised that she could not help any longer, but she had not moved away from Ezio’s side. Leonardo did not exactly know the relationship between the two of them, and Ezio did not mention her often, but he had seen the blood drain from Rosa’s face at the cry Ezio gave when the arrow was ripped from his shoulder._

_He did not dare think about this while he worked, cautiously changed bandages and washed away the blood – so much blood. Only when his teeth started to hurt he realised he had been clenching them throughout, and when there was nothing more to do but wait and hope that Ezio’s body was not weakened to the point of no return, he busied himself by carefully moving Ezio’s limbs, pressing his thumbs to the soles of his feet, as though it would push life back into his unmoving body. His skin looked ashen, his hair was a mess, and his hands were cold. Leonardo could not, no matter how much he tried, stop seeing the strong semblance to the bodies he dissected in the back of his workshop, where not even his assistant dared to go._

_The evening had been like war. Leonardo had tried to forget who Ezio was, had tried to look at him like just another body, like it was a machine that needed treatment, so that he did not fall back into panic. He knew how to work quickly and efficiently, but he did not know how to do it without inflicting pain, so the groans and whimpers that had sounded more and more strained and tired had echoed agonizingly in his own chest. Afterward, when Ezio had fallen into a forced, fitful sleep, Leonardo had been sitting there, as though glaring at the man would somehow keep him alive just from the fear of making Leonardo furious by dying. He had watched in silence, emotions of all kinds waging war within his body; worry, shock, and sympathy most of all, but also livid anger. Some of it, a very small part though, was directed at Ezio himself for being so reckless, for seeking danger and risking his own life. The biggest part was directed at whatever man had caused his injury. Never in his life had he imagined in so much detail what it would be like to dissect a living man slowly and cold-heartedly. Later, he’d wanted to vomit from his own thoughts, but had refrained, ashamed by himself._

_Even though he had wanted to stay awake at Ezio’s side after three of the thieves had left, his body had succumbed to sleep, a sleep filled with images of Ezio lying on his worktable in the back of his_ bottega _, torso opened up and folded out in front of him like one of the bodies he kept for dissecting._

_He turned away from the image that felt so starkly unrealistic now that the sun had chased the shadows back into the corners of his workshop, when he felt unrelenting eyes on his face. Rosa looked up at him from her slumped position on the floor. She stared at him, expression tired but also wary, and then raised her eyebrows at him._

_“Still breathing,” Leonardo answered in a low voice. Rosa pushed herself to her feet and ignored his outstretched hand, rolling her shoulders that probably ached a lot. Leonardo sank down on the chair next to Ezio, crossing his arms and observing Rosa as she studied Ezio’s form, naked but for his torn trousers and the bandages across his shoulder and chest, his thigh and underneath his fringe. She murmured something under her breath, something that definitely sounded like something rude and nasty, and Leonardo did not know whether those words were directed at the men that hurt Ezio or at Ezio himself, but he guessed the latter by the dark look on Rosa’s face that suggested manslaughter._

_He cleared his throat. “Who- I mean, did you see what happened?”_

_Rosa narrowed her eyes in a tight-lipped expression. “I did. A group of guards on a roof. He took a wrong turn and ran into this nest of wasps.” She snorted. “They pulled their typical routine. Crying_ assassino _and raising their weapons before thinking. As though they could ever stand a chance.”_

_She raised her hand and tugged a strand of hair from her bonnet, her pretty face disturbed by an ugly snarl she’d learned from the boys at the thieves’ headquarters. Rosa’s eyes met with Leonardo’s for a second and a grin pulled at her cheeks. “None of them survived if that’s what you need to know.” She nodded towards Ezio with a thoughtful look in her eyes, and her expression softened. “He killed them all. The guy with the crossbow ended up with a bullet in his head._ Stupido _if you ask me. He alarmed every guard in the area with the noise. But we got him out before they arrived.”_

_Leonardo swallowed and studied her carefully for a moment, then, his voice faltering embarrassingly in the middle of it, he said: “Thank you, Rosa. For saving him and bringing him here.”_

_He did not know why he felt the need to show her his appreciation. Rosa was not the kind of woman to care for his opinion of her, much less someone to accept a kind gesture, as she wanted to be treated like the men she surrounded herself with, but in the end, she had probably saved Ezio from certain death. It was the least he could do._

_Rosa avoided looking at him, and her jaw tensed, but she gave a slight nod and turned away to shake her young friend from sleep._

_He felt restless as the boy picked himself up from the floor and cast a worried glance at Ezio’s unmoving form on the worktable. “Would you like something to eat before you go? I’m sure I will find something…”_

_He made to get onto his feet, but Rosa chuckled dryly and leaned down to pat him on his cheek. “Stop being so disgustingly polite, Leonardo. We will be fine. And he will too, here.”_

_Whatever Rosa said, he realised he did not actually possess the strength needed to entertain guests, or to even clearly understand what she said. With a sigh, he slumped deeper into his chair. For some reason, he wanted to avoid being left alone, even though he usually appreciated a little peace and quiet in his workshop, so that nobody but himself could disturb his commissions and personal projects. But he knew that it would not make Ezio heal faster if he was observed by another pair of eyes. He just did not want to be alone with his thoughts that could get so nasty and dark and persistent whenever Ezio was hurt._

_He watched the two thieves leave in silence. The promise to come back soon was written across Rosa’s face, but she did not speak and did not thank Leonardo or wish him good luck. He was thankful for that._

_When he was sure that Ezio did not need him for the moment, he settled down at another table, one usually reserved for sketching, and pulled out the page of codex Ezio had brought him the day before. The parchment was rough underneath his calloused fingers, the ink bleached out from age, and he felt a strange kind of sympathy at the creaking of the dry material. Leonardo wondered how many years the codices would survive after he read them, if they would be lost and scattered or collected into a single codex, if Ezio would treat them well or if they would be destroyed in one of his many fights. Decoding the words written in slightly shaky letters, at first from the strain of writing after a long period of less precise use, later from the emotions crawling into the parchment through the tip of a trembling quill together with the ink, had felt wrong at first, like he was intruding into a man’s personal life, and intimate later; like the man at the other end of the quill had chosen Leonardo to be the receiving hand, even though Leonardo knew this to be impossible._

_It was difficult to concentrate on the words and sketches before him when he couldn’t stop listening to the shallow breathing in his back, the warmth draining from his limbs in the agonizing seconds of shock when Ezio held his breath for a moment or grunted quietly. In the end, he pushed away from his desk and walked bumps into the floor, observing the sunlight wandering through his room, checking on Ezio and blinking away a heavy feeling in his gut whenever he changed his bandages carefully or went back to rubbing warmth and movement into unscathed limbs. Hunger was gnawing on his stomach, and he forced a simple meal upon himself, and then settled down waiting for the moment Ezio decided to come back to the living._

Elijah opened his eyes when Lucy came around with food. She didn’t say a word, and neither did he as moved his numb limbs to sit up. He stared at his breakfast without seeing it. Even though the thought that he could now live in Leonardo’s skin even without the machine was unsettling in itself, he couldn’t help but find solace in the certitude that he had indeed lost his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> bottega – workshop  
> assassino – murderer, assassin (obviously)  
> stupido – stupid


End file.
